


Protocol 927

by TheFlailing



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4396565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlailing/pseuds/TheFlailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve made a lot of promises, even before the war - promised to pick up groceries, promised to be careful, promised not to forget to stop by the post office on the way home - and he broke a lot of promises too. But this one was the most important one; Steve was determined to keep this promise, even if it killed him.<br/>-8-<br/>A re-imagining of the Captain America movies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Promises We Make

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slashtext](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashtext/gifts), [notallbees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallbees/gifts).



> Hi everybody! This is my first fanfic, and it was really a labour of love. I had so much fun, and I can't wait to share it with you all! I hope you like it!
> 
> I wrote an Author's Note and a Dedication, but it ended up being longer than expected, so I've put it at the end.  
> Please enjoy! =D

Three children crowded around the base of a tree, their heads turned up to look into its branches. Partially hidden by verdant leaves, an orange kitten was perched amongst the slender limbs. The children had their hands cupped around their mouths, yelling up at the frightened, shivering mass of fur.

From the other end of the playground sprinted a small, wiry young boy, his golden, straw blonde hair glimmering in the afternoon sun. A hurricane of boney limbs, a young Steven Grant Rogers unleashed a vengeful cry as he fell upon the three children. What he lacked in size or technique he made up for with sheer force of will, but it was three against one, and all of his opponents were older than him. Not ten minutes later, Steve was being pushed around like a pinball.

“HEY!” called a voice.

A particularly hard shove pushed Steve to the ground.

There was yelling above him, though he couldn’t make out the words when his head was swimming and Steve felt like he was looking out through a fishbowl. A minute later and a shadow moved over him.

Steve opened his eyes to find an unfamiliar boy peering back at him. His face was soft and round, the hair atop its head dark and unkempt. A pair of clear, blue-gray eyes blinked curiously at him. The boy was crouched down on the heels of his feet, his hands placed on his knees as he looked at Steve.

“You okay?” the boy asked.

Steve stared back.

The boy cocked his head to the side. “What’s your name?”

Steve blinked.

“I’m Bucky.” The boy – Bucky – held out his hand.

He looked at the proffered hand. It was no bigger than his own, the small fingers smeared with dirt.

The boy smiled and pushed his hand forwards, almost bumping his fingers into Steve’s face as he prompted Steve to accept it.

Steve uncurled from his fetal position and tentatively clasped the hand with his own. Bucky leaned back and yanked, bringing the smaller boy to his feet. With an accomplished smile, Bucky dusted off Steve’s shoulders.

“Why’d you go after those kids?” Bucky asked. “There were more of them and they’re all older, I know cause they’re in my class.”

Steve’s eyes hardened. “They were makin’ fun of the kitten, and it was scared.” The kitten! He gasped. He’d almost forgotten! Looking up, Steve searched through the greenery above him until he spotted the shaking orange fur. “We gotta get him down!”

The golden haired boy immediately put his hands on the flaking bark of the tree, looking for a hold.

“Here, wait, lemme do it,” Bucky said, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder to pull him back.

Steve stepped back as Bucky braced himself against the lowest branch of the tree. It took a few minutes, but the dark-haired boy scaled the tree quite handily and reached the kitten without much trouble.

“Here, I got him!” Bucky said. With gentle hands, he lifted the kitten off its perch and leaned down. Steve, standing right beneath Bucky, reached up. When he stood on the very tips of his toes, Steve was just able to brush his fingers against the kitten’s fur.

Being as close as they could get, Bucky gently dropped the kitten into Steve’s waiting arms before clambering down.

“Thanks,” he said as he petted the kitten.

“What’s your name?” Bucky asked again.

“Steve.”

-8-

The next day, Steve gave Bucky half of his tuna sandwich as thanks for both driving off the other children and for helping him save the kitten.

Bucky refused the triangle of sandwich, and even had the audacity to insist that Steve take two bites of his own PB and jelly because Steve ‘looked too small for his age.’ When Steve ended up sharing his lunch with a hungry dog anyways, Bucky yelled at him until Steve promised not to share his lunch unless he brought extra food. Afterward, Bucky practically force-fed Steve another mouthful of his PB&J.

-8-

The late summer air was humid in Brooklyn, and it made every one of Steve’s breaths heavy. The metallic stairwell was cold to the touch in a shocking but pleasant way. Steve, wearing only a pair of shorts and a tank top, sat on the steel grill with his legs dangling over the edge of the fire escape. The small blonde boy hummed quietly under his breath as he looked up at the night sky, swinging his legs through the empty air as he played connect-the-dots with the stars. It was his favourite game in the summertime when it was too hot to sleep – Steve would sneak out onto the fire escape and make shapes in the heavens.

Steve was tracing the outline of a lion in his mind when he inhaled a particularly smoky lungful of air. Immediately, Steve’s airways constricted and he bent over in a fit of coughing.

“Steve?”

A warm hand patted Steve’s back as he rode out the coughing fit. After a minute or two, Steve’s lungs calmed down.

“Thanks,” Steve replied, turning to give Bucky a small smile. Sitting beside him, Bucky kept his hand on his back for a few moments longer, rubbing small circles to soothe Steve’s breathing. Though his skin was already hot and covered in a thin film of sweat, Steve didn’t mind the warm touch.

“You need some cough syrup?”

Steve shook his head. “No, ‘m okay.”

Bucky smiled back at him as he withdrew his hand. They were sitting close, despite the heat, their knees and elbows knocking. Even in the dimness, Steve could make out the curve of Bucky’s pale lips and the shine in his blue eyes. He was in need of a haircut, the long dark locks falling over his forehead and forming a curtain over his left eye. Bucky had stripped off his shirt when they’d crawled into bed an hour ago and he had his pajama pants rolled up to his knees.

His best friend had hit a growth spurt this summer, and Steve was only a little bit jealous – only a _little bit_ , not a lot, for sure – that Bucky was getting even taller. The blonde boy hoped that he’d hit puberty soon – Steve hated being left behind, even if he knew Bucky couldn’t help that his biology made him sprout early. In the last month, Steve could also hear the subtle deepening of Bucky’s voice. It was kinda weird and sounded really foreign whenever Bucky talked now, which would take some time to get used to, but the new voice also did strange things to Steve’s insides when Bucky spoke sometimes.

Steve shivered and tried not to think about it too much.

Silence fell around them like a soft blanket. Steve liked that he didn’t feel the need to fill every second with conversation – he and Bucky sometimes liked to just sit in each other’s company; it didn’t feel awkward or weird. It felt safe.

Bucky turned back to the city. Steve watched for a few minutes as those gray-blue eyes wandered back over the quiet streets, before he turned his own eyes back up to the sky to continue making shapes in the stars.

-8-

The alleyway was dreary, dank, and smelled faintly of urine and rotting trash. It had rained the night before, and deep puddles of oily water pooled on the concrete, the air still damp and clammy in the cool spring air. It was still overcast, and none of the late afternoon sun’s rays penetrated the thick, bleak curtain of clouds that covered the city. The tall buildings on either side of the alley blocked out what little light remained, casting shadows across the trash that littered the ground. The sounds of the city – the roar of automobile engines, the ring of a bicycle bell, and the sounds of people – drifted in the distance, muffled by the enclosing walls.

“Ya don’t know when ta fuckin’ quit, do ya?” sneered a tall, burly young man. He was tall, dressed in a simple white shirt paired with dark pants and plain suspenders.

Steve wiped his chin with the back of his sleeve; he didn’t need to check to know that his blood was now smeared over the cotton. The blonde was crouched low, his fists up in front of his face in a defensive position. Steve opened his mouth to reply, but a fit of wheezing erupted from his lungs instead.

The man in front of him laughed as he swung a closed fist.

Though he attempted to block the punch, the blow landed heavily on the left side of Steve’s ribcage, and he felt himself thrown to the side. With a wet crunch, Steve collided with the brick wall. Shooting pain laced up and down his entire torso, and Steve’s vision began to blur. “Are... are you kidding?” he panted. “I’m just getting sta-” he managed to gasp before the sentence was cut off by another fit of wheezing. Steve swayed dangerously on his feet; he had barely enough energy to remain upright.

Taking a step forward, the man’s mouth moved and his voice rippled through the air, but Steve’s brain felt like it was trying to swim up the Hudson River and he couldn’t make out any of the words. Not that it mattered, because a moment later, another punch – this time landing squarely on the face – sent him sprawling on the hard, cold concrete.

Steve coughed. A crushing wave suddenly washed over his small body – his entire chest and the lungs within them constricted with terrifying force. Gasping for air, the blonde haired young man lay helpless on the cold concrete, betrayed by his own body.

His eyes mutinously rolled in the sockets of Steve’s head as his vision blurred to the point where the world was now composed of moving blobs. One such blob strode towards Steve, making the ground shake with every step. Steve willed his limbs to move, tried to push himself back upright, but try as he might he only succeeded in shifting them a few lame inches.

The burning in his lungs was spreading slowly from his chest like sweet molasses across a plate. As more and more of his body began screaming for oxygen, his mind stumbled to keep up with his surroundings.

With one last little, choked exhale, Steve’s eyelids fluttered shut.

Time seemed to slow, and Steve had only two half-deaf ears and the skin on his bones with which to sense to world. That is, assuming that he could register anything above his frantic attempts for more air. Seconds stretched into minutes, then hours, then days as footsteps drew ever closer.

A muffled cry.

The shuffling of feet.

The sounds of an impact. Then two more.

Loud voices.

And then the feeling of someone very near.

Instinctively, Steve tried to prepare himself for the inevitable strike, the next punch or kick, but in his current state, he couldn’t do much more than clutch his chest and squeeze his eyes.

 _This is how it all ends,_ Steve though sadly to himself.

Then something landed on his face – cool, wet, rough – and Steve recoiled in response, throwing off whatever it had been.

A moment passed, and then it returned. The thing settled gently onto the side of his face, moulding itself to the curve of his sharp cheek bones and jaw. There was the sound of a voice – tenor with a rich timbre. It was different than the one before... it was familiar, Steve realized. The voice was shaded with emotions that Steve couldn’t place, and the words flitted just beyond his reach.

He felt another thing, strong and firm, and then the world seemed to tumble and his body came into contact with more firm things that moved him about. After a dizzying moment, Steve’s brain registered the fact that he had been lifted. It took another few moments for the world to settle around him, and Steve found himself still again, this time not pressed to the hard firm ground below, but pressed against something not quite as hard to his sides.

And it was moving. It was small, but the surface fluttered faintly.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Fast but steady, and strong.

It was a heart, Steve realized. He was being held to someone’s chest. But... who...?

Steve’s breathing was still quick and shallow, his own heart still racing to pump whatever precious oxygen he could still get. His body felt like it was made of iron weights, but with all his willpower, he was able to force his eyes open.

Vision still blurry, he could make out the figure of the person holding him, the face looming just inches away from his own.

The mouth opened, and the air vibrated with that familiar voice, but Steve could not hear the words.

A thing landed once more on his face.

 _Oh, a hand_ , Steve noticed this time, _it was a hand_. Softly, the hand cupped his face, the thumb stroking over his cheek. It was cold and clammy, slick with moisture, and calloused, rough to the touch.

Again, the mouth opened and words tumbled forth. Steve caught his name, ‘slow,’ and ‘breathe,’ but little else. With much of his remaining energy expended, Steve’s eyelids fell closed. For the second time, the thumb stroked soothingly over his face, and it calmed him down a little.

The voice once more filled the air, and this time, Steve caught a whole sentence. “Whoa there, that’s it Stevie, take it easy,” it cooed softly.

The small man tried to relax, but with his muscles taught and wound up from the stress and adrenaline, it was a difficult task.

“That’s right, breathe slow,” the voice continued.

With all the effort he could muster, Steve tried to slow his panicked breathing and gradually, he could feel his chest begin to unclench ever so slightly.

After what felt like days – but must have been merely a few minutes – his lungs had opened up enough for the screaming in his body to subside to a dull wail. The second he had enough energy to do so, Steve opened his eyes. With a new clarity – although technically an improvement, it still wasn’t very clear – a familiar face blinked into view.

Long dark hair, wet and clumped together, hung limply about a sullen, pale face. A sharp nose hung from a strong brow, and pale rose lips were framed above a sharp, boney jaw that was dusted with what appeared to be two-day-old stubble. A streak of blood was painted across the left cheek, and two bright, blue-grey irises peered out of widened eyes.

“B-Bucky?”

The man exhaled with relief. “Steve, thank god,” he said as he held Steve in a crushing embrace.

Steve’s face was buried into a firm, bony chest. Bucky’s white, tattered shirt was coarse and damp, and it scratched at Steve’s skin with an annoying familiarity. He could feel the flesh and bones of Bucky’s chest beneath it and some of his body heat seeped through, warming Steve slightly. A rich scent filled his senses – sharp, deep and musky, like smouldering cherry wood and tobacco mixed with a hint of peppercorns – and with it, a sense of security. He’d always loved how Bucky smelled; it had always had a calming effect on him.

“Where the hell did you disappear to? Been looking up and down for ya for the last two hours!” Bucky said as he pulled back to look Steve in the eye.

Steve, still trying to get his lungs back in working order – or, as much working order as he could get them to – didn’t answer.

“And what’d I tell you about picking fights with guys five times yer size?” Bucky chided.

“He had it comin’ to ‘em,” Steve grumbled between ragged breaths.

Bucky smirked. “What’d the guy do this time?”

Steve mumbled, his answer was but an inaudible growl.

“What?” Bucky asked, turning his head to hear, a small smile still playing on his lips.

“Bozo didn’t think I was cut out for service. Had ta show him he was wrong.”

The hands that had been busy fretting over Steve’s small body stilled, and Bucky went stiff. His already pale face fell a few shades more towards bone white, and Steve’s heart sank with it. He knew it wasn’t what Bucky wanted to hear, but there was no point in lying – Bucky would have eventually wheedled the truth out of him eventually.

“ _What?!_ ” Bucky exclaimed, his eye widening.

Steve looked away; he couldn’t stand to see how Bucky was looking at him at that moment. He didn’t need to look to know what he would have saw. There would be worry and concern, for sure, but also disapproval, and a whole lotta anger.

“Tell me you didn’t, Steve.” Bucky’s voice was low and threatening, and Steve could hear his teeth grinding together.

“It don’t matter anyways,” Steve muttered sourly, the rejection-stamped paper crumpled and discarded elsewhere in the alley.

“I specifically told ya not to pull this kind of thing again,” Bucky said, his tone rising. “You promised me ya wouldn’t!”

“I know I did, Buck, but you don’t under-”

“No,” Bucky said, cutting him short, “ _you_ don’t understand. What is this, the seventh? Eighth time?”

“Fourth,” Steve grumbled.

“Steve, I told you, ya don’t belong in the-”

The small man bristled. “No, Buck, you’re wrong! I _do_ belo-”

“You’re just going to get yerself-”

Steve pushed away, tumbling out of Bucky’s grip and landing on the damp concrete with a soft _thump_. He had just enough energy now to push himself to his feet, though he needed to lean against the brick wall to his left to keep himself upright. “There are other men from all over the country – all over the world – risking their lives so that we might find an end to this war! Who are you ta tell me that I don’t got the right to risk my life too?”

Bucky ground his teeth; it was an argument they’d had many times before. “Yeah, they’re riskin’ their lives, and a lotta them are losing ‘em, too!”

Steve crossed his arms. “Buck, the longer this goes on, the more people suffer and the more people die. I gotta do my part to help end it!” Steve said with as much conviction as his weakened body would allow.

“And who says your part hasta be done with the army, marching around in the dirt and mud on the other side of the world?”

“What does it matter?” Steve said huffily. He looked away, studying the holes in the brick wall and the way the mortar was crumbling. “Besides, I didn’t get in anyways.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you didn’t get in _this time_ , but what about next time? And don’t you dare try ta tell me that there isn’t going to be a next time, I know you better than that, Rogers. What if – God forbid – there’s some crazy ol’ coot who decides t’approve your application? What then?”

“Then I’ll be in Europe, and I’ll be makin’ a difference,” Steve said with a nod of resolution.

“No, you’re going ta go to Europe and you’re going ta get yourself killed, that’s what!” Bucky shouted, the deep, rich sound of his words echoing in the alleyway.

“Well then I’d have died making a difference, and we would be one step closer to bringing Hitler and to justice!”

Bucky made a frustrated sound, throwing his arms in the air. “No Steve, you’d be laying dead an’ half buried in mud only God knows where! That’s it, dead! Just dead! And then what, Steve? Then what?!”

If Steve had been paying attention, and if his brain had been firing on all cylinders instead of being clouded with anger, he would have heard the unspoken end to Bucky’s question: _‘and then what am I supposed to do without you?’_ that hung in the air between them.

But he didn’t, and instead Steve retorted, “Fine, I’d just be dead! So what?”

Bucky recoiled as if he’d been stricken across the face. The expression remained frozen on his features for a moment, before the dark haired man turned and briskly exited the alley.

The lack of a response jolted Steve out of his ire. Pushing away from the wall and limping to catch up, the smaller man swore under his breath. He’d said something wrong, and that was bad. Even worse, he couldn’t figure out what he’d said wrong in the first place.

“Look, Buck,” Steve started, but he didn’t get the chance to continue.

“Just drop it,” Bucky said sharply.

Steve’s heart sunk. He hated fighting with Bucky.

-8-

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky called, his lips graced with a youthful smile and his angular cheekbones tinted a slight pink. A loose fitting shirt hung about Bucky’s wiry frame while a pair of pressed pants clung to the man’s bony hips. Phyllis was at his side, her arm linked with Bucky’s, wearing a lovely cornflower blue dress.

The warm lights from above cast a comfortable glow over the dancefloor. Dozens of couples were getting into position for the next dance. At the far end of the hall, a band was set up on the stage, the conductor tapping his baton for the attention of the musicians.

Steve looked at the outstretched hand, but shook his head. “No, it’s alright,” he said.

“Oh but Steve, it’ll be fun!” said Phyllis with a welcoming smile.

“You two go ahead,” said Loretta from beside him as the first few notes of the next song drifted across the room.

“Are you sure?” asked Bucky.

“You know I’ve got two left feet when it comes to dancing; I’ll only end up hurting someone.”

Bucky grinned, and Steve suspected he was remembering the last time he’d managed to convince Steve to dance in a hall like this. It had been disastrous, in Steve’s opinion. How he’d managed to injure three other people, he’d never know; Steve wasn’t sure if he should consider it a miracle or the opposite that none of the injured parties happened to be his dance partner.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on Steve a moment longer, until a tug from Phyllis gained his attention, and the pair returned to the dance floor.

Steve turned to face Loretta and smiled apologetically. “If you’d rather be dancing-”

“Oh don’t worry about me, Steve, I’m havin’ a swell time just sittin’ with you an’ watching the others,” she said with a warm smile.

Steve blushed and looked down. Steve always felt rather inadequate whenever Bucky convinced him to double date. It was always awkward with whatever girl Steve ended up with, although Loretta seemed to be enjoying herself much more than most. The young woman sat beside him with a cheerful smile as they watched the twirl and sway of bodies on the dancefloor. As a consequence, Steve felt a lot less uneasy than he usually did. Truthfully, Steve never quite enjoyed these double dates – he really didn’t know what to say, much less do, when he was around women – but it was worth it to see Bucky’s radiant smile as he sashayed across the dancefloor having the time of his life.

On the other side of the room, Steve could see Bucky and Phyllis, both thoroughly enjoying themselves as they whirled through the crowd. Phyllis’ lips moved as she said something to Bucky, who threw his head back with hearty laughter. The sight brought a forlorn smile to Steve’s face.

-8-

Steve heard the clink of keys hitting the table as he removed his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. Bucky was locking the apartment door when Steve turned back around. A joyful smile still played across Bucky’s thin, pale lips, his cheeks still rosy pink. The man was still brimming with energy, and it filled Steve’s chest with warmth.

“You should have danced tonight, Steve! I bet Loretta would’ve fancied a dance with you,” Bucky said.

“Nobody’s linin’ up to dance with me, Buck, you know that better than anyone.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Stevie, you’re a better catch than you think,” Bucky replied, still grinning like an idiot.

Steve waved off the compliment. It was an old argument. They had lots of old arguments, between the two of them.

When he didn’t get a response, Bucky shrugged it off, moving to the cupboards to grab a glass, filling it with water from the tap – dancing could make a person quite thirsty. The dark-haired man hummed as he went, his hips swinging to an imaginary beat.

Steve watched with the corners of his lips lifted. “Didn’t get enough of the Gershwins tonight?” he teased.

“No!” Bucky lamented. “The band only played three Gershwins! I wanted them to play another, and I could have danced at least another two songs,” he sighed dramatically as he mimed dancing. The sight of Bucky balancing on one leg while wiggling the other in mid-air brought a rumbling chuckle from Steve, and soon Bucky was joining in on the laughter.

“Really? You and Phyllis danced until closing. I didn’t think you’d be able to walk after that,” Steve chuckled.

“Phyllis was great dance partner, and dancing with her was grand but my legs are still itchin’ for another one!” Bucky declared. “The band could have played one more song, at least.”

Steve chuckled.

Bucky turned to look at Steve, a light playing in his eyes. “Dance with me?” he asked.

“You know I can’t dance. I got two left feet, remember?”

“Don’t matter. Dance with me?” There was a goofy grin on Bucky’s face, and a suave bravado that Steve found hard to refuse. “C’mon Stevie, not knowin’ how never stopped you before.”

Steve heaved a sigh. “Don’t blame me if you get hurt again,” he said, placing his hand in Bucky’s offered one.

Bucky beamed.

Pulling the smaller man into his arms, Bucky drew Steve close. Steve’s small, almost delicate hands folded into Bucky’s large, calloused ones. The dark-haired man was warm and sweaty, his body still thrumming. On Steve’s next inhale, Bucky’s intoxicating, heady scent filled his senses; Steve looked up into Bucky’s clear blue eyes and his heart skipped a beat.

“Up ya get,” Bucky said cheerily as Steve toed off his shoes. With a lift from Bucky, Steve gingerly stepped on top of Bucky’s feet. “Ready?” the taller man asked, unable to hide how much he was enjoying the moment.

When Steve nodded, Bucky lifted his foot, taking Steve’s with it.

Steve frowned in concentration. It always took a few steps to get into the hang of shifting his weight along with Bucky so that he wasn’t trying to stand on the same foot Bucky was lifting. But Bucky was patient. After a few warm up steps, Bucky began humming a familiar tune, and their dance began in earnest. Standing on Bucky’s feet, the two of them swirled around the room in a flurry of steps. They moved swiftly from one end of the apartment to the other, and back. Bucky’s deep voice hummed in Steve’s good ear as they moved to the swell and ebb of the song.

Bucky wasn’t exactly on tune, but to Steve, it didn’t matter. He felt as light as air. In the middle of the dance, Steve chanced a glance at Bucky, and found the taller man smiling down at him with a radiant expression; Steve felt dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that they were spinning.

After several minutes, the song Bucky was humming drew to a close, and the two men found themselves standing in the middle of the room, swaying from side to side.

“One more?” asked Bucky.

Steve rolled his eyes but couldn’t refuse.

Bucky began humming again, and this time Steve thought recognized the song. It was a slower ballad, and their tempo slowed to match the song. Bucky held Steve close as their danced; the large, warm hand at his back making his skin tingle. Steve closed his eyes and rested his forehead on Bucky’s boney shoulder, letting the moment seep in through his skin and permeate his being. The dark-haired man’s deep humming was right next to his ear, and Steve could almost feel Bucky’s throat vibrating.

“ _Although he may not be the man some girls think of as handsome,_ ” Bucky sang softly, “ _to my heart, he carries the key..._ ”

Steve laughed. He knew this song - it was one of Bucky's favourites. Steve picked up the chorus from where Bucky trailed off: “ _Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed, follow my lead, oh how I need, someone to watch over me._ ”

As they reached the end of the song, Bucky slowed them to a gentle stop.

Bucky chuckled playfully. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? ‘Two left feet’ my ass. You just need the right dance partner,” he said with a wink.

-8-

The creaking of door hinges and the soft click of the lock sliding into position stirred Steve from his slumber. It was dark; outside the window, heavy clouds obscured the stars in the night sky. The room was cast in faded lamplight, and long shadows stretched across the worn wooden floor.

Steve’s eyes flickered towards the door just as Bucky was removing his jacket. The thinning material was like mesh and light leaked through the fabric like water through a colander. The sight of his best friend lifted the corners of Steve’s pale lips into the slightest of smiles. He let his head fall to the side, his cheek resting on the cool fabric of the pillowcase. Though the movement was slight, it sent Steve’s clogged mind spinning, and for a moment, vertigo pulsed through his swollen, throbbing head.

Bucky looked up at the sound of small rustling. His shirt was stretched and worn, the collar torn and hung open an inch, revealing a bare patch of his chest. His sleeves had been pushed up to the elbows, showing off thin but strong, sinuous arms. A pair of suspenders held up Bucky’s pants, and his feet sported a pair of hole-filled socks.

Bright, blue-gray eyes widened.

“Steve? What – are you okay?” Bucky asked as his brows drew together. He crossed the distance between the door and the bed in four great strides.

When Steve coughed, it resonated through his skull with a dull ache. “Yeah, ‘m okay,” he mumbled. Steve tried to make his voice sound clearer and struggled to push himself up to prove that he was okay, but his failing strength betrayed him, and he was barely able to lift himself an inch off the mattress before collapsing back down on the thin bedding.

Kneeling at Steve’s side, Bucky placed the back of his hand on Steve’s forehead. The movement stirred the air, and a faint whiff of cherry wood, tobacco, and peppercorns floated across Steve’s senses. The familiar scent gently washed over him, and soothed away tension he didn’t even know his body was holding.

“What happened?” Bucky asked. “You seemed fine this morning, but I could fry an egg on your forehead right now.”

Steve tried to shrug.

Bucky sighed. Without another word, his pushed himself up and strolled to the other side of the room. From a drawer, he fished out a spoon while his other hand rummaged through the cupboard. Steve heard the scrape of tin cans against wood and the clinking of glass for a few moments.

“Steve, where’d the cough syrup get to?”

“Should be in there on the left,” Steve answered weakly.

There was the sound of more clinking, and then –

“Steve.”

It was a statement, not a question, and it didn’t sound very pleased.

Steve’s eyes fluttered open again at the sound of Bucky calling his name. Bucky was standing several feet away from him, one hand on his hip and the other holding up an empty bottle.

“When we ran out of cough syrup last month ya promised to buy another bottle on the way back from work!”

Steve furrowed his brow, trying to think through the haze. A moment later he remembered what Bucky was talking about. “The store raised the price by a nickel, and we’d already skipped dinner twice that week,” he replied with a defiant glare.

Bucky made a noise of frustration. He opened his mouth to argue, but he was cut off before he could speak.

“It’s alright, Buck, ’s just a cold. I don’t need the cough syrup. I’ll be fine.”

They both knew it was a lie – Steve’s colds always lasted almost twice as long without medication. Bucky forcefully deposited the empty bottle and spoon on the table and came to sit on the bed beside Steve’s legs. Leaning down, Bucky put his hand over Steve’s forehead again.

Steve involuntarily sighed at the contact – Bucky’s palm was cool, rough, and soothing.

Steve knew Bucky wanted to argue – he could hear Bucky’s teeth grinding together and see the muscles of his jaw working over, but the dark-haired man kept silent. Steve’s eyes fell closed once more – the comforting feeling of Bucky’s hand on his forehead and the sound of his even breathing was lulling him back into unconsciousness.

-8-

Steve downed the rest of his drink in one swing, slamming the empty glass onto the wooden table with a sharp _bang_. The heavy liquor scalded his throat on the way down, searing his flesh like a branding iron. It burned and made his eyes water and his head spin, but it was a good burn.

The wooden chair scraped against the bare floor as Steve staggered to his feet. His vision was blurred, but whether it was from the alcohol or the tears, he no longer knew. Steve stumbled across the room and fell to his knees, a crumpled mass of paper on the floor in front of him. Earlier, he’d balled up the sheet in his rage and thrown as hard as he could manage and he’d watched as it harmlessly bounced off the plaster.

For the eighth time that evening, Steve picked up the paper from the floor and brought it back to the table. Slumping into the chair, he gingerly began unraveling the sheaf. Gently, Steve ran his fingers over the severely wrinkled page, carefully smoothing out the creases once more.

The letter was written in a hasty script, and between the wrinkles and the smudges, it was getting difficult to read.

_Dear Steve,_

_I know you wanted to see me off this morning, but I thought it would be better this way. I wanted to leave things on a good note. I had a swell time last night, and I didn’t want to ruin the memory. I hope you can forgive me for leaving like this. I’ll be home before you know it, Stevie, don’t you worry. I’ll take you out for ice-cream and we can sit on the wharf and watch the stars while we eat, just like when we were kids. How’s that sound?_

_Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone, you got that? You promised me you’d take care of yourself. I don’t want to come back to Brooklyn and find you half dead because you thought some assholes needed to learn a lesson._

_I’ll write you as soon as I can._

_-B_

Steve dropped his head into his arms, his nose bumping against the wood of the table, and tried to suppress the sob that was rising in his chest.

-8-

The faint sounds of chirping crickets filled the cool, spring night air. A crescent moon hung low in the sky, several gray clouds glided lazily alongside it. The darkness felt subdued, and the fresh air hung about as if the atmosphere itself were holding its breath in anticipation for morning.

Steve sat on the concrete, leaning his back against the side of the barracks with his legs folded beneath him. The door to his left was propped ajar, and the light from inside barely kept the shadows at bay. Sweat glistened on his pale skin, his white tank top clinging to his body like a second, slimy skin. A jaunty chorus of laughter and banter drifted through the door. Over the past month, Steve had become accustomed to the noise and commotion that came with sharing sleeping quarters with at least a dozen other men.

It was quiet out here, muted in a way that brought him peace.

With a sigh, Steve looked down at the sketch book he had cradled in his hands. It was open to a page near the centre. It was the first sketch he made when he arrived at Camp Lehigh – a view of the sleeping quarters from here he sat at his cot. It had been mid-afternoon when he made it.

Though there had been a few other recruits in the room at the time, Steve had omitted them. Several rows of mattresses on bare wire frames filled the pictured room from edge to edge. Windows on the side wall let in the light from the grounds, casting a faint glow over the space. In the centre of the page, slightly to the side, a shirtless figure was drawn with careful strokes. The man was sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest, his arms folded to hug his knees. Though the figure was drawn looking away from the artist, the sweep of his dark hair on the back of his head and the sharp contours of his boney scapula were easy for Steve to recognize.

He had tried to imagine what the camp would have looked like if Bucky had been there with him. When Bucky had returned from basic training, he’d told Steve so many stories about this place, and he would lay awake some nights in their apartment, trying to imagine what it was like.

That first day, Steve didn’t have to imagine the camp anymore, but every scene had been haunted by Bucky’s presence.

Without meaning to, Steve’s right hand went to his chest. His thin, delicate fingers closed around the fabric of his tank top and the dog tags underneath. Two sets. One, his own tags. The second, Bucky’s old tags, which the sergeant had mailed to Steve when he had been issued a new set. He wore them side by side, regardless of regulations.

Bucky would kill him for doing this, that was for sure. He’d made Steve promise that he wouldn’t get himself into any trouble, made him promise that he’d take care of himself. Steve could picture Bucky’s face as he said the words, the way his brows had drawn together, the way his eyes sparkled with ferocity, the way his pale lips curled around the words leaving his mouth.

He’d made Steve promise.

And what had Steve done? He’d gone and signed up for an experimental program with the SSR.

A rueful smile graced Steve’s lips. He was going to get chewed out, for sure.

That is, if he survived.

Steve shook himself. No, _when_ he survived – not ‘if.’

He was going to finish his basic training, and he was going to be the one chosen to enter Project Rebirth.

He had to.

-8-

_Dear Steve,_

_Thanks for sending the sketches with your last letter. How’d you know I’d miss the city? And I guess your ugly mug is good to see too. I like when you talk about home in your letters. I can picture it when you do. It makes things easier._

_We’re back in London for a few days, resupplying and gearing up to go. The city’s more beat up than last time – one of the pubs I liked didn’t survive the raids. Seeing the streets barricaded and falling to pieces like this is depressing. I wonder what it looked like before the war. It must have been pretty._

_I found a postcard the other day; I hope you like it. Been missing you like crazy, Steve._

_Stay safe._

_-B_

-8-

“That’s not the point!” Colonel Philips’ voice drifted through the warm, late afternoon air. Steve came to a stop and straightened unconsciously at the sound of his voice. It seemed to be coming from the office ahead, the door slightly ajar.

“Colonel, I disagree; that’s precisely the point.” Dr. Abraham Erskine’s quiet, calm response was a stark contrast to the colonel’s.

Steve took a step back – Dr. Erskine has asked to see him, but it could wait until the end of this conversation. Naturally, he was curious about what they were talking about, but he suspected they were discussing something very classified.

Just as Steve was turning to leave when he heard Colonel Philips say, “He can’t even run half a mile without collapsing! Don’t tell me you honestly expect him to finish training at this rate.”

Steve clenched his hands into fists and ground his teeth. Though they didn’t mention him by name, he immediately deduced that they were talking about him. A mile run didn’t bring any of the other recruits to within an inch of death. Steve’s fists shook with anger. It wasn’t his fault that he’d fainted from a heat stroke! It was just his damn body! If Steve’s body would just cooperate, he’d show all of them what he was capable of, the asthma and frail bones be damned!

“I believe he can.”

Dr. Erskine’s quiet but confident reply reassured Steve. He’d been grateful that the doctor had accepted his enlistment papers, although he didn’t exactly know why. Dr. Erskine had been nothing but kind to him and Steve found a sort of companionship with the doctor in the evenings and his time in the infirmary, when Dr. Erskine would visit and bring books or games.

The sound of a fist slamming against wood almost made Steve flinch. “Well even if he does finish, he won’t be entered into the program. The serum would tear him to pieces!”

“With all due respect, Colonel, seeing as I’m the doctor, I believe I’m best qualified to determine whether or not Steven is suited for serum.”

“You’re choosing him? He’s the runt of the litter! Any of the others would be a better choice. He’s like a goddamn leaf! A stiff breeze would knock him onto his skinny ass. A man as weak as that will never be the super-soldier we’re looking for.”

“A soldier is made of more than just strength. This is especially true where my serum is concerned,” Erskine replied.

Colonel Philips grunted. “When you brought that wet rag onto my camp, I thought that maybe you needed an assistant, or a paperweight! Someone to run around behind you carrying beakers or help you with filing or something. I didn’t think you were actually considering him for the program! Do you know how many boots I had to lick to get this project off the ground? You pick Rogers, and I’m going to be a laughingstock.”

“The choice is clear.”

A moment of silence passed, before the office door burst open and Steve found himself face to face with Colonel Philips himself.

-8-

_Dear Steve,_

_It’s been really cold here and it never stops raining enough for anything to dry. I feel like I’m turning into a frog and every time I take a shower I half expect to find fungus growing on me. I’m sorry, but some of your sketches got soaked. I tried my best to keep them dry, but it’s damn well impossible with all this water._

_Everyone’s been pretty down lately. The weather’s not making marching any easier, and we’re all sick and tired of being soaked to the bone. The food’s still tastes like it came out of a trash can and everything still hurts._

_We lost a few men the other day, on recon, and it was hard. More bunks are empty now than I thought possible. Don’t tell Ma, but sometimes I wonder if I’m next. I’m so glad you’re still back in Brooklyn, and not here in this hell hole._

_I miss you, Stevie. I can’t wait until this goddamn war is over and I can come home._

_-B_

-8-

The wet cotton swab was cool against Steve’s pale skin.

“Think happy thoughts,” Dr. Erskine instructed cheerily.

Steve stared straight ahead at a blank spot on the wall opposite him. He barely registered the prick of the needle in his arm, and he totally didn’t feel it when the needle was removed.

“There, we’re finished with the preparations.”

Steve turned to look at Erskine as he put away the small glass bottle of penicillin. He was humming contentedly as he worked, his gloved hands tinkering with the tray of assorted medical equipment.

“Doctor, can I ask you a question?”

Erskine looked up from his fiddling. “Hm? Yes, of course. What is it, Steven?”

Steve breathed in. “Why me?”

A puzzled expression appeared on Erskine’s face.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that you chose me and- you already know that I overheard your argument with Colonel Philips. I just want to know why you wanted me.”

Dr. Erskine gazed at Steve with a fond expression. “Oh Steven,” he said, his eyes twinkling. After a quick glance to the closed door, the doctor continued. “The serum I created is very dangerous. Colonel Philips and the SSR want to use it to make a strong soldier. They want me to help them build an army that can win their war.”

Steve nodded. He’d heard Colonel Philips talking to some senator guy about this once before.

Erskine resumed rummaging through his medical supplied as he talked. “But I did not design my serum to make soldiers. I do not _want_ my serum to make soldiers.”

Steve frowned. “But then... why are you giving it to the SSR?”

Erskine looked sad. “Project Rebirth is the result of many things. I am here to right my own wrongs, and the SSR are the only people who can help me.”

Steve drew his eyebrows together, but before he could ask, the doctor was speaking again.

“I did not intend for my serum to be used this way. My serum was not meant to create weapons. I joined Project Rebirth because I wanted to create protectors. Guardians. Defenders. People who would shield those who cannot shield themselves.

“Soldiers are strong, yes, but a good soldier does not always make a good protector. For my serum, I need someone with compassion, the courage to do what is right, and the dedication to stand up for what one believes is right. This is why.”

There was a twinkle in the doctor’s eyes, and his smile was small.

Erskine’s words resonated in Steve’s heart and seemed to settle around his shoulders like a mantle, one that he wasn’t sure he was prepared to bear, but one that he vowed he was going to spend the rest of his life striving to uphold.

“I... don’t know what to say,” Steve said, looking down at his bare knees, his cheeks lightly flushed with embarrassment. “Thank you.”

Dr. Erskine smiled magnanimously. “No, Steven, it is I who must thank you. I have been given a chance at redemption, and you are my hope.”

-8-

Senator Brandt had wanted Steve to carry a toy rifle during performances, and initially the script called for Captain America shooting ‘Hitler’ from across the stage instead of delivering the final blow with his fist. But Steve had adamantly refused. If he was going to symbolize America and American values, then he didn’t want a gun. A gun could be used to protect, yes, but it could just as easily be used to terrorize.

Erskine’s final words that fateful morning replayed constantly in Steve’s mind. Steve had promised Erskine that he’d do his best to live up to the doctor’s wishes, and he couldn’t do that while standing in front of a crowd of impressionable people holding nothing but a rifle. He was meant to be a shield, not a weapon. So what better accessory for Captain American than an _actual_ shield?

Senator Brandt had argued and grumbled, but eventually he painted it with stars and stripes to make it more patriotic.

-8-

It had rained for the past week, and finally the skies had cleared just enough for one afternoon. Shining rays of sunlight peered through the gaps in the clouds and glinted tantalizingly across the puddles and lakes of mud. It was still cold, and the water still seemed to cling to everything, but it seemed better than the cold, pouring rain, if only slightly.

The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon, painting a soft ethereal glow over the camp. It was odd, seeing the angular military tents and heavy metallic artillery lit in such soft shades of orange and rose. The camp looked more like a swamp, and everything had a healthy coating of mud plastered to its surface. Tents were pitched in regular arrangement, and soldiers milled about – it was early evening, and most men would be in the mess hall filling themselves on rations or in their bunks. Everything looked battered and eroded, even the men, and the waning sun caused a melancholic air to settle over the troops.

A light breeze blew softly through the air, and the trees shivered as it passed through. The brisk, light atmosphere caressed Steve’s skin, and he shivered too. It had only been a few months, and in many ways, he was still adjusting to his new body. Everything was brighter, sharper, louder, fresher, just _more_ than it used to be.

With a few last strokes of his pencil, Steve put the finishing touches on the sketch he’d been working on – a scene of the camp from his vantage point. Leaning against a tall oak tree on the edge of the forest, he had a good view of the main promenade and marching grounds. With a small sigh, he closed his sketchbook.

At that moment, his newly honed and sharped ears picked up the sound of boots squelching through thick mud, and a moment later, a voice sounded from a few feet in front of him.

“The infamous Captain America,” said the voice – it was precise and held authority without sounding overbearing.

Steve looked and fumbled with his pencil, almost dropping it into the mud.

A woman was standing a few feet away from him dressed in an SSR uniform. Her hair was the colour if liquefied cinnamon and long, wavy locks fell about her face in a tidy cascade. She had a strong angular face, from which two intense, caramel coloured eyes looked upon him. A pair of full, red lips, glossed with a deep shade of lipstick, were curled into a small smile.

Looking regal and just as stern as ever in her pressed and pinned uniform, Peggy Carter was a force to be reckoned with. It was always humbling, in a way, to be in her presence.

Steve straightened, tucking his notebook under his arm and turning to face her with squared shoulders.

“Captain,” Peggy said with a nod.

“Agent Carter,” Steve greeted in return.

“What brings you to Europe?” she asked as casually as she would for the time of day.

“Just some sightseeing,” Steve said with a cheeky smile.

“Is that so? Well you’re visiting in the wrong season – the weather is just dreadful until the end of April,” Peggy replied. Steve noticed that she was carrying a thick stack of manila folders stuffed full of papers.

Steve chuckled at her joke as he relaxed his posture, going back to leaning against the tree. “I’ll make note to visit another time then.”

“How are you?”

Steve shrugged. “Doin’ alright.”

Peggy narrowed her eyes.

Steve sighed. Looking off into the corner of the sky, he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “It’s...” Searching for the right words, Steve opened and closed his mouth several times before continuing. “Frustrating. I’d always dreamed over comin’ over here and making a difference. Now I’m here, and I’m prancing about a stage like a circus clown.” He tried to hide the bitterness in his voice, but Peggy could probably see right through him. “I just... want to help; I want to do something meaningful. But instead I’m trapped in ridiculous blue leggings.”

Shifting the papers in her arms, Peggy exhaled impatiently. “Well, if you want to make a contribution that does not directly involve musical numbers, then might I suggest making yourself useful?”

Steve chewed the inside of his lip. How was she to know he was planning to sneak away as soon as he knew where help was needed? He’d been itching to get onto a battlefield, but without knowing where to go or where help was needed, he might have ended up in the middle of nowhere, or worse, behind enemy lines.

After a moment of silence, Peggy just shrugged as if to say, ‘what’s stopping you?’

Steve had been waiting for the opportunity to present itself, and now that Peggy was here, he realized that this just might be the break he was looking for. “What are you doing all the way out here, anyways?” he asked casually.

Peggy pursed her lips. Instinctively, she angled her body away from Steve and the grip on her files tightened. “Official SSR business. I’m making reports for Colonel Philips. And if you’ll excuse me, there’s a meeting I need to be getting to,” she said briskly.

Turning on her heel, Peggy made to leave. She’d taken half a stride when Steve called out to her.

“Peggy, wait!”

Coming to a stop, Peggy looked over her shoulder. “Yes, Steve?”

Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I... uh... Could I ask a favor?” Peggy could always see right through him, but he had to at least try.

“That depends on the nature of the favor,” Peggy replied.

“Do you know where the 107th Infantry is currently stationed?”

Peggy raised an eyebrow. “The 107th? Steve, you know that troop deployments are classified military intel.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you ask?”

Steve rubbed his chin absently. “My father was in the 107th. Some of his old friends might still be.” It wasn’t technically a lie, but it wasn’t entirely the truth either.

Peggy pursed her lips. She seemed to give it a moment of thought before replying. “The 107th was stationed at Azzano.”

Steve frowned. “‘Was’? What do you mean ‘was stationed’? Are they not there anymore?”

Peggy sighed. She seemed conflicted for a moment before Steve recognized the way her expression set itself when she made a decision. “The 107th clashed with a garrison from the Nazi deep science unit, Hydra. We suffered heavy losses. Ninety percent of that unit was either killed or captured.”

Steve physically felt the blood draining from his face, and it felt like the ground was opening up underneath him, the world falling away.

_No! Bucky!_

Peggy must have sensed something, because she took a step towards him. “Steve? Is everything alright? You’re as white as the cliffs of Dover.”

Steve swallowed thickly. “I- you said that most of them were captured or killed?”

Peggy nodded.

“Do you- do you have the casualty list?”

Peggy frowned. “Steve, that’s all highly classified, I can’t disclose-”

“I just need one name. James Buchanan Barnes.”

Her frown deepened and Peggy opened her mouth to protest, but Steve spoke first. “Peggy, I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.”

Reluctantly, Peggy turned to the files in her arms. She angled her body away from Steve and began sifting through the folders. Steve took half a step back to give her some space – he didn’t need nor want any more classified information than he was looking for. Finding the folder she was looking for, Peggy opened one and flipped through its pages. After four or five, she paused and her eyes scanned down the sheet.

When she looked up, Steve prayed that his face didn’t look as hopeful as he felt. But when he saw her expression, it felt like his chest had imploded.

“I’m sorry, Steve, but your friend is classified as MIA.”

Steve blinked. “MIA.”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” said Peggy, and from her sympathetic tone and look of concern, Steve knew that she genuinely meant it.

“Not KIA.”

A heartbeat passed before Peggy drew her brows together. “Steve,” she said with a warning tone, but it was too late. The gears were already turning in his mind. If there was even a fraction of a chance that Bucky was still alive, Steve was going to get him out of there.

-8-

Steve’s boots thudded loudly against the concrete. The sound of his footfalls echoed eerily down the empty corridor and reverberated through Steve’s chest, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the sound of his own heart beating wildly in his chest. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like water in a raging river. His whole body thrummed with tension – Steve had to find Bucky, and had to find him fast!

In the distance, Steve could hear shouts, gunshots, and explosions from the firefight on the other side of the building. The smell of smoke and gunpowder was heavy in the air, mixed with the humid smell of mold and stale sweat.

The whole building sickened him – Steve had already waded through a corridor of labs filled with bubbling chemicals and specimens of what he prayed were animal remains. The sight had put a boulder in the pit of his stomach and it was all he could do to press on.

Another explosion rocked the building, dust crumbling from the concrete ceiling. Above him, bright, bleached lights flickered and swayed as they bathed the space with an uncanny, sterile pallor.

Pausing to listen, Steve’s newly acute hearing picked up a sound. At first, he thought it might have been the wind, blowing in through an open window, but when he heard it again, he recognized it as breathing. It was faint, but he heard it.

Heart racing, Steve took off in the direction of the sound, praying that it was Bucky and that he was alive. Steve would never forgive himself if –

No, he couldn’t let himself even consider the possibility. He was going to get Bucky out of here.

The rooms passed by in a blur, Steve was running so fast that he didn’t register that one of the rooms he passed was not, in fact, empty but instead held a strange looking metal throne until he was two doors past. Skidding to a stop, Steve turned on his heels, almost tripping in the process, and backtracked.

From his earlier glimpse, he could tell that the room was lined on one end with bookcases filled with dusty tomes. On the other end was a row of tables laden with scientific equipment – glass beakers, flasks filled with colourful liquids, syringes, and strange apparatuses he didn’t recognize.

When he reached the doorway, Steve could see a heavy, metallic throne resting on an elevated dais, all bathed in that harsh, sterile light. Steve’s stomach dropped. Not a throne. It looked more like a reinforced operating chair, similar to a cross between a dentist’s chair and an electric chair. It was situated in the centre of the room, facing away from him. Steve could see that someone was strapped to the chair. He couldn’t tell who, but from the sounds of ragged breathing it appeared that whoever was there was still alive.

Other than that, the room appeared devoid of people.

Taking a fortifying breath, Steve stepped into the room, the grip on his shield tightening. He moved slowly and cautiously, all his senses tuned into the slightest of sounds or movements – it wouldn’t do for him to be ambushed at this stage; he couldn’t let his guard down.

Only when he was a handful of feet away from the chair and when his instincts had cleared the room of all threats did Steve rush onto the dais.

The soldier was strapped to the chair with chains and thick leather belts that looped around his arms, legs, hips, and torso, firmly anchoring him in place. He was dressed in an American uniform that had certainly seen better days; it was ripped in more places than Steve could count and stained so badly that the original colour would have been near impossible to guess if Steve didn’t already know what the uniform looked like in pristine condition.

Bruises the colour of ripe plums painted a visage composed shark angles and harsh lines. Bucky’s face hadn’t changed much since Steve last laid eyes on him, and yet there was something imperceptibly different about it. His skin held a sickly pallor that Steve didn’t ever remember seeing before, and his cheeks looked hollower than they did last – more sullen – and there were heavy bags under his eyes. His nose was also more crooked than before, and his lips paler than he recalled.

A turbulent mix of relief and anguish washed over Steve simultaneously.

“Bucky, thank god,” Steve breathed.

Bucky was alive, but he didn’t look to be in the best condition, either.

Bucky’s chest – broader and more defined from basic training, but somehow more fragile looking than Steve wanted to admit – rose and fell steadily. His eyelids flickered with every breath – half lidded and draped over those blue-gray irises that Steve loved so much. His gaze was clouded and unfocused. Bucky seemed barely on the edge of consciousness, and Steve felt like a hand had reached into his chest and wrapped its fingers around his heart, squeezing painfully until he felt like it was being crushed.

The shield clattered noisily to the floor. “Oh, Buck, what have they done to you?” Steve asked as he fell to his knees, his fingers ghosted over Bucky’s body, checking for any injuries or harm. When he found no broken bones or signs of severe tissue trauma, Steve finally allowed his hands to come to rest on Bucky’s shoulders.

At once, both searing anger and crippling despair smashed into Steve like a wave breaking on rocks. Bucky had always been the stronger of the two of them, and seeing him in this state shook Steve more than he thought it would.

_Buck, whoever did this to you is going to pay with more than their lives, I promise you._

As though he sensed something, Bucky twitched, his head rolling from one side to the other as a jumble of mutters tumbled from his lips.

Steve’s heart leaped into his throat.

“Bucky? Buck, it’s me, can you hear me?” Steve asked desperately as he brought his hands to Bucky face, cradling his jaws as delicately as possible in his fingers.

Bucky’s eyelids blinked open and closed, and more mumbled words – too garbled to make heads or tails from – spilled from his mouth.

“C’mon Buck, wake up, please wake up,” Steve pleaded softly.

Bucky moaned, and a moment later his eyes opened. Those familiar, bright blue-gray eyes stared blankly down at Steve, and for a second he panicked at the vacant, unseeing look.

“Bucky? It’s me, Steve.”

Bucky blinked, and his eyes seemed to focus some. “S-Steve?” he croaked. Bucky’s rich, tenor voice was worn and hoarse, sounding more like sandpaper scraping against glass.

The fact that Bucky recognized him eased some of the tension in Steve’s body. “Yeah, yeah Buck, it’s me,” Steve said, and he couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face.

Bucky smiled weakly in return. Though he the lines and creases on Bucky’s face showed how exhausted he was, there was a small look of wonder on those angular features. “Steve...” he murmured, “Steve...”

And then, to Steve’s horror, that look of wonder morphed into one of fear. Bucky’s thick, black eyebrows rose high onto his forehead, his bloodshot eyes widening as his jaw dropped open.

“No...!” Bucky said, his voice rising. “No, no, no, not Steve!” Bucky screamed.

Steve’s heart felt like it had been dropped from the top of the empire state and smashed onto the pavement below. “Bucky? What’s-”

“Nooo!” Bucky cried as he began to thrash. The thick leather belts groaned as Bucky struggled against them, shrieking as he writhed in the chair.

“Buck! It’s me! Please Buck, stop,” Steve said as he tried to pin the soldier in the chair. If he kept this up, Bucky could hurt himself.

“Not Steve! Stop! Not Steve!” Bucky cried as he continued to fight against his restraints. The metal rattled noisily as the soldier struggled against the leather and chains.

An explosion sounded in the background, though it didn’t sound as far away as the last one had. The walls shook with the blast and the hanging lights above swayed as dust and soot was dislodged and fell around them, cloaking them in a grim, glittering halo.

“Bucky!” Steve shouted, but nothing was getting through.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut as he whipped his face from side to side. “No! Stop it! Get out of my head!” Tears began leaking down the side of Bucky’s face, blazing wet trails over his dirt-and-blood smeared skin and dripping onto the cold steel with a muted _plink_.

“Bucky, it’s me!”

“No! This isn’t real! You’re not real! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

Steve didn’t think there could have been anything worse than the feeling that gripped him when Peggy told him about the 107th; the prospect of facing a world without Bucky in it had been crushing, to say the least. But this? This was ten times worse.

“Bucky,” Steve said, his voice cracking on the name as it left his lips. Steve sagged, bending over Bucky’s lap as the sergeant continued to thrash beneath him. Using his forearms, Steve tried to keep Bucky’s chest pinned to the back of the chair as he placed his hands on either side of Bucky’s face, trying to keep him still.

Closing his eyes and leaning forwards, Steve pressed his forehead to Bucky’s temple and nuzzled his face into Bucky’s cheek. His skin was rough and dusted with stubble, which scratched his skin in an irritating but comfortingly familiar way.

Steve’s next inhale brought with it a concoction of scents. The strongest was the deep, distinctive ferric odor of dried blood. Mixed with that was a sharp, acidic smell that stung Steve’s recently heightened nose – it reminded him of bleach and ammonia. But underneath all that – underneath the grime and the sweat and the blood and the chemicals – was the sweet, ripe fragrance of smoked cherry wood, tobacco, and ground peppercorns.

Bucky fought against Steve’s hold, but Steve remained firm.

“Shhhh,” Steve cooed, “It’s okay Buck, it’s just me, it’s Steve, I’m here. Shhhh, I’m here for you Buck, it’s okay. I’m here now.”

Gradually, painstakingly slowly, Bucky’s trashing subsided, and two minutes later, the solider was still save for the deep rise and fall of his chest accompanied by the rasping of his heavy breathing.

“That’s it, Buck, that’s it, everything’s gonna be okay, I’m here.”

“S-S-Steve?” Bucky whimpered. The frailty and uncertainty in his voice broke Steve’s heart.

Steve pulled back enough to look into Bucky’s wet eyes. “Yeah Buck, it’s me, it’s Steve.” Those blue irises seemed to come into focus, flicking over Steve’s face and taking in his features.

Bucky blinked several times, and Steve thought he looked more lucid. “Is it- is that really you?”

Steve smiled. “Yeah, it’s really me, you jerk.”

“What...? How...?”

“That doesn’t matter right now; we gotta get you outta here.” Steve held Bucky’s gaze for a second longer before turning his attention to the leather belts. In a matter of seconds, Steve managed to rip the straps clean off the table.

Bucky slumped limply into Steve’s arms, and though the captain helped him gingerly to his feet, Bucky’s legs weren’t yet able to hold his own body weight. With an arm around his waist, Steve steered Bucky towards the door, eager to be away from this foul space.

The two of them stumbled into the brightly lit hall, Bucky leaning on Steve of support. With Bucky still shaking, the two men stumbled down the hallway. The going was slow, which made Steve anxious – he was itching to get out of this hellhole as fast as possible, but Bucky wasn’t exactly in top condition and he didn’t want to rush and cause any additional injuries.

As they moved down the hall, from the direction that Steve had come in, Bucky seemed to be regaining his strength. With every step, he was taking more and more of his own body weight and leaning on Steve less.

The hallway ended in a T-junction with a corridor leading to an emergency exit. Steve was just steering Bucky towards the exit when the echoing sounds of boots caught his attention from the other end of the hallway. Automatically, Steve turned Bucky away from the sound, positioning himself between the sergeant and the approaching footsteps and raising the shield with his free arm.

Not a moment later, three Hydra soldiers turned the corner at the far end of the hall. Spotting the two Americans, they raised their guns and opened fired. Steve was relieved to discover that these Hydra soldiers were shooting regular guns instead of the eerie blue bolts of lightning he’d seen turn men into steaming piles of ash. Steve had no idea where these bizarre new bullets came from, but if this was what Hydra was researching, they needed to be stopped.

A barrage of slugs zinged past their heads, punched holes into the walls behind them, and made dents in the shield – Steve had been very relieved to discover that his prop shield actually had the capacity to stop bullets. It wasn’t the best protection, but it was still better than nothing.

With the barest of flinches, Steve didn’t have time to think as he ducked behind the warped shield and pulled Bucky along the wall; in that very moment, two things happened at once. A burst of gunshots erupted into the air, and the impact on Steve’s sensitive hearing felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his eardrums; at the same time, Steve’s right leg was shattered by pain and gave out from under him, causing Steve and Bucky to collapse to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs.

Steve was disoriented for a second, his ears ringing loudly. His eyes tracked down the hallway to find three corpses bleeding out onto the sodden concrete. He felt fingers on his chest and face, and looked up to see Bucky putting down the handgun Steve had kept tucked into a holster by his side.

The searing pain in Steve’s leg felt like hot lava was being poured onto his thigh; gripping the limb in both hands, Steve gasped and swore.

“Steve? Steve!”

With a hiss, the captain winced. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

“Okay?!? Steve, you got fucking shot! Twice!”

On Steve’s uniform pants two holes the size of quarters exposed the flesh of Steve’s leg underneath. Blood flowed so steadily that it was difficult to see the bullet wounds, but Steve sure as hell felt it. Underneath his skin, it felt like a hot coal had been ignited deep in the muscles of his upper thigh.

“It’s alright Bucky, ‘s just a scratch. Not gonna kill me.”

But Bucky was already removing just uniform jacket and tearing it into strips. Steve knew what he was doing – they had the same training, after all. Bind the wound to stem the bleeding.

“‘Just a scratch’ my ass,” the sergeant muttered darkly.

Bucky worked quickly, and a minute later, the pressure on Steve leg was both relieving some of the pain as well as reducing the blood loss. This time, Steve was the one who was shaking as he tried to stand. Bucky hovered nervously as Steve pulled himself up, steadying himself with a hand on the wall.

Immediately, Bucky was at Steve’s side. Steve did not find it ironic not funny that their position from two minutes ago was now reversed, with Steve leaning on Bucky for support.

“Why do you always gotta be the goddamn hero, Rogers?” Bucky muttered as he helped Steve limp towards the door.

“Someone’s gotta be the hero with a villain like you lurking about,” Steve replied, his lips twitching up into a small smile.

After another few steps, the agony in his leg forced Steve to pause. His thigh throbbed painfully, and Steve ground his teeth as he tried to concentrate on anything but the pain. After a minute, the pounding subsided enough that he could walk again. Swiping his sweat laden brow with the back of a hand, Steve straightened up. Bucky helped steady him, and took a step forwards and moved to guide Steve forwards with him, but Steve planted his feet.

Bucky turned to look at him with a worried expression. “Steve? Are you okay? Can you walk?”

“I can walk better than the last time we went for the coasters at Luna Park,” Steve replied.

The sound of a detonated grenade made the two men jump, and the distinctive flash and wind created by the blast sent a chill down Steve’s spine.

“Look, Buck, you should get outta here. The other prisoners are running through the forces on the east side. Get to them and they’ll-”

“What?” Bucky said with a frown.

“Through that door,” Steve said, using his chin to indicate, “is the loading bay. At the end of the warehouse there’s a bunch of open gates. Go through, head left along the building and-”

“And what about you?”

Steve set his jaw. “Buck, just go already! Don’t worry about me; I’ll catch up to you. We’ll regroup in the forest just south of-”

“Leave you behind?!?” Bucky looked at Steve like he’d grown an extra head. Another blast sounded, and Steve could feel its warmth on the air that breezed by; there was no time to waste!

“I’m only gonna slow you down, Buck.” Steve found himself shouting. “I didn’t parachute into Nazi territory to watch you die here!” As the words left his mouth, Steve could feel the grip on his heart tighten, responding to the image – the thought – that Bucky might meet his end here, in this dilapidated Hydra facility.

“I didn’t sign up for the army to watch you die here either!” Bucky yelled back, his eyes wide.

“Buck, there’s not much time! I told you – go! At this rate, we’ll both be buried under a heap of rubble!”

“There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you behind, Steve,” Bucky stated as he braced his arm around Steve’s waist and tugging some of the captains weight off his right leg.

Steve tried to protest, but Bucky refused to leave his side. They hobbled together towards the exit as they argued loudly, their volume escalating as the noise around them threatened to drown them out. When they reached the door, Bucky elbowed it open and they stepped into the warehouse.

The sight of an entire storeroom set ablaze, when only two hours before had been unoccupied and quiet, caused Steve the pause. A gas tank on the opposite side erupted into flames.

The two men looked at each other.

Less talking, more walking.

-8-

When Steve and Bucky regrouped with the survivors, the factory and the laboratories were being consumed by fire, burning steadily to the ground. Steve had wanted to let the soldiers rest, but he’d been convinced to order everyone to begin marching – nobody had any idea if or when reinforcements arrived, and most agreed that it would be safer to be as far away as possible.

The going was rough, but thankfully, a few of the soldiers had managed to commandeer a tank and two trucks. The tired and injured were given a ride, and the troop had marched a quickly and silently as possible.

Aside from the rumble of the tank and trunk engines, the Austrian forest was calm and quiet. The tall evergreens stood with majesty as the light of the stars twinkled through the gaps in their branches. The air was cool and smelled fresh in a way that Steve’s old nose would never have noticed.

Steve was perched on the tank’s left mudguard. One of the soldiers Steve had released was a medic, and he’d spent half an hour in the back of one of the trucks as the medic had performed makeshift surgery to remove the bullets and wrapped his leg in bandages. It still hurt like hell, but it was better than no medical attention at all.

Bucky marched stoically alongside the tank, his shoulders bumping into Steve’s knees. He’d not said a word since they escaped the Hydra base, but Steve was chalking it up to exhaustion – the expression on Bucky’s face was haggard and looked like the sergeant had been pulled to the limit of his endurance. Several times, Steve wondered if it was possible to sleep-march, because he could have sworn that was what Bucky was doing.

When the darkness in the sky began to ease, Steve called a halt. They’d walked through the night, and he figured it they were far enough away to rest.

Immediately, people organized themselves into watch rotations and what supplies they’d manage to salvage were distributed. A blanket was pushed into Steve hand, and when he turned around, he saw that Bucky had found himself a firm piece of ground. The soldier was lying on his side, his eyes already closed and his breathing steady.

Steve couldn’t help the affectionate smile that graced his lips. The corners of his eyes grew moist as Steve’s heart felt lighter than air, lighter than it had in a long time.

He’d missed this. More than he realized until this very moment.

If he had his pencils and paper, even though he was dead beat from the rescue mission, Steve would have taken a seat right there on the mud and happily sketched Bucky’s sleeping form. It was just so familiar: the slope of Bucky’s nose, the slight frown he wore in slumber, the curve of the tendons in his neck, the way his fingers half-curled, the way his mouth turned down into the slightest of frowns.

Steve took the blanket in his hands and wandered over.

The captain suffered two minutes of indecision before he made up his mind and lay down on the loamy soil behind Bucky. Opening the blanket, Steve curled himself around Bucky’s sleeping form, spooning him slightly, and draped the blanket over them both. Steve smiled to himself – their positions were the reverse of how they usually slept, but Steve didn’t mind. He was taller and bigger than Bucky now, and it would have been slightly awkward if he’d stuck to their normal arrangement.

Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky’s waist and gently bumped his nose against the back of Bucky’s neck. Inhaling Bucky’s scent was the last impetus, and Steve descended into unconsciousness.

-8-

When Steve woke several hours later, he was alone.

Midmorning sunlight was streaming through the trees. A stray ray of sunshine hit the side of Steve’s face, warming his cheek. Though it was cold and everything was damp from the morning dew, Steve felt alert and rested. Sitting up, the blanket fell from Steve’s shoulder.

The captain looked around the makeshift camp. Soldiers were in various states of being roused, and from the looks of things, everyone was getting ready to get moving again. When he got to his feet, he was approached by a few of the soldiers – one called Gabe with a wide mouth, kind eyes, hard expression and an easy gait, with another called Dernier, who looked exhausted and grumpy, but somehow in good spirits. They asked how Steve wanted them to proceed, and they spoke for a few minutes to organize how to proceed.

At the end of the conversation, he asked if either of them had seen Bucky. Dernier shrugged, and Gabe thought that another soldier called Morita might know. Steve asked around a bit more, and in the end one of the soldiers said that he’d seen the sergeant wandering off deeper into the woods.

Steve looked in the indicated direction. He picked his way through the uneven underbrush as the serene sounds of nature surrounded him. Drops of dew sprinkled around Steve as he brushed passed ferns and bushes.

It wasn’t long before Steve rounded a tree and came found the man he was looking for.

Bucky was several feet away, sitting on a fallen log elevated above the forest floor. His feet rested on a boulder just below, and he was bent over, his head in his hands. Bucky’s dark hair was damp, and stuck up at strange angles, like he had been pulling at it all morning. He was still dressed in the remains of his tattered uniform, sans jacket.

Steve frowned.

Bucky hadn’t noticed that he was not alone anymore. Seeing him in this state, Steve was no longer confident that his presence was welcome. He moved to hide behind the think tree trunk at his side, to give himself a moment to figure out what he was going to say.

As Steve shifted his weight, a twig cracked beneath his left heel.

Bucky’s head snapped up and Steve grimaced at the sound.

Immediately, Bucky was on his feet. His eyes were wide and darted to and from Steve’s face; he looked on the verge of fleeing, and Steve’s heart plummeted.

Steve sighed and took a step forward. “Bu-”

“No, don’t come any closer!” Bucky said, bringing his hands up. He took a step back and stumbled, falling to the ground. His butt hadn’t even made an imprint on the soil before Bucky was jumping to his feet and backing away once more.

“Bucky...”

“No, don’t!” A mix of emotions played across the features of Bucky’s angular face. Fear. Hurt. Anger. His beautiful, blue-gray eyes were red rimmed and wet.

“Buck, please, I-”

“I don’t care who or what you are, but don’t you take another step!”

“Bucky, it’s me, Steve.”

Bucky shook his head vigorously. “No. No, you can’t be! Steve- Steve’s back in Brooklyn. He’s small and asthmatic and he’s a tiny troublemaking punk. You can’t- he’d never- you just-”

“It’s really me, Buck. I know I look different, but it’s still me on the inside. It turns out there _was_ some old coot who was crazy enough to approved my enlistment application forms.” Steve smiled sadly at the bittersweet memory.

Bucky blinked. He looked conflicted. An uneasy silence settled between them as the sergeant processed what was happening. A minute, then two passed. “Is it really you?”

Steve held out his hands. “In the flesh.”

“I thought- last night... it couldn’t have been you, I thought I’d dreamt the whole thing...” A pause. And then, “How could you, Steve?” Bucky’s broken whisper drove icy daggers into Steve’s heart.

“I’m sorry Buck, but I had to.”

“You promised to take care of yourself! Is this what you call taking care of yourself?”

Steve gazed at his best friend beseechingly. “I knew you’d be mad, and I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me, but if I had the chance to go back and change my mind, I wouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Bucky didn’t reply; he merely regarded Steve with uncertainty.

Steve was watching very carefully for any signs that Bucky might bolt. Aching for contact, he cautiously took a step forward.

“What did they do to you, Steve?” Bucky’s voice broke on his name.

“It... there was a program – experimental. There was a serum. It- it fixed me – my body, I mean. It fixed my immune system, my eyesight, my hearing – everything, even the asthma. It made me stronger, and faster, too. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what’s changed, but everything seems to work... better.”

A strange expression crossed Bucky’s face, but it was gone before Steve could place it. “Does it... does it wear off?”

“It hasn’t yet.”

Bucky inhaled to steady himself. “So now you don’t just bark, you can bite, too.” Though the words might have seemed light, there was bitterness to the way Bucky spoke them.

Steve took another step forward. “I guess you could say that.”

Bucky wasn’t retreating anymore, but he still looked unsure. Steve slow closed the gap between them until they were standing face to face. Steve held his gaze steady, trying to reassure whatever concerns Bucky seemed to be harbouring. Bucky’s eyes, on the other hand, darted about Steve’s face, searching for something – what it was, Steve didn’t know.

“You lied to me,” Bucky said, his voice barely above a murmur. “In the letters. You said- you told me...”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry Buck, I didn’t want to, but everything was so classified, and I knew you’d hate that I’d done it and I just figured it’d be easier telling you in person?”

“But you lied to me.”

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat. “I promise I’ll never do it again, I swear.”

The captain reached forwards, aching to bridge the chasm that had somehow opened up between them, but Bucky drew back from Steve’s hand, eyeing with mistrust. That, more than anything, was what broke Steve.

The captain crumpled to his knees and fell forwards, his forehead knocking into Bucky’s breastbone. The sergeant’s coarse, standard issue shirt was worn to the bare threads and soft to the touch as Steve's hands fisted into the material at Bucky’s sides. Tears broke free from the corners of the captain’s eyes and a strangled sob escaped his lips.

Bucky was frozen as Steve wept, his tears staining the already soiled shirt. A minute passed. Then two.

When he felt a light touch at his neck and the back of his head, Steve shuddered and clutched Bucky in his arms even harder, pressing his face into Bucky’s boney chest. Fingers weaved themselves into Steve’s short, golden hair and an arm wrapped around his broad shoulder. The touch was light, and the fingers feathered through his hair and across his broad shoulders.

A moment later, Steve felt hot wet drops landing on the back of his neck.

-8-

Sun filtered in through the tent curtains, illuminating the newly finished sketch in Steve’s lap with bright splashes of light. The tent may have been cold and cramped, but Steve felt more at home than he had in a very long time. Though he knew there were still so many things up in the air, he no longer felt lost.

The captain’s smile widened. Of course, that had everything to do with the man asleep on the bunk in front of him – and Steve wasn’t embarrassed to admit it. Bucky was snoring softly, his limbs tangled in the thin army issue blankets, oblivious to the fact that Steve was sitting on a chair beside the bed, indulging his guilty pleasure of drawing Bucky.

Steve was putting the final pencil strokes to the sketch when there was a soft tap on the tent entrance. He looked up from his drawing just in time to see the tent flap being pushed aside, and Peggy Carter stepped into the already crowded tent.

“Captain,” she greeted quietly.

“Peggy!” Steve replied with a grin.

Agent Carter moved to stand behind Steve. She peered over his shoulder, appraising his handiwork as her eyes looked from the page to the subject and back.

“So this must be Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy smirked. “Now I see why you were so antsy about your suicide rescue mission. I wouldn’t be willing to give up on such a handsome face either.”

Steve elbowed Peggy playfully in the hip, turning away to hide the blush that was creeping onto his skin.

“Thanks, Peggy, for what you did. You and Howard both. I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble with Colonel Philips.”

Peggy chuckled softly. “Oh, your little stunt? Stark will probably throw money at the SSR until the problem goes away, and I’m tougher than anything the Colonel can send my way. Don’t worry about us. It was very much worth the trouble.”

Steve looked up at Peggy fondly. He knew that he owed her for convincing the higher-ups not to reprimand him too harshly for diving head first into a solo rescue mission with practically zero field experience. Yes, he’d gotten real results, but that hadn’t stopped the bigwigs from wanting to hand him serious punishments.

“Well, I’ve got a meeting to get to. Please remain on standby; we’re trying to find a flight back to London for you and some of the other officers.”

Steve nodded. “Alright.”

Peggy left as quietly as she came, and Steve turned back to his drawing. Bucky shifted in his sleep as Steve picked up his pencil and flipped to a new page in his sketchbook.

-8-

The streets of London were even more distraught than the last time Steve was here, with new holes blown into building on every street and debris lining the sidewalks.

Wet and muddy cobblestone squelched softly beneath their boots as they walked. Steve looked all about him as they passed quietly through the city. Bathed in the light of the waxing moon, Steve wanted to capture the scene in his mind’s eye for a sketch later – though run down and on the brink of collapse, it looked strangely beautiful at night like this.

Beside him, Bucky walked without saying much. He had been very quiet since their reunion at Azzano, and although he was tempted to ask, Steve knew that Bucky needed the space to process. A lot had happened in a short span of life, and it was bound to take some time to adjust.

The sergeant was wearing an old tattered shirt and a pair of pants that had definitely seen better days. Despite the cool night air, he had his sleeves pushed up past his elbows, and the top three buttons undone.

Bucky ran his long, pale fingers through his short, dark hair as he exhaled, a cloud of smoke billowing from his nostrils as he did so. Raising the cigarette to his lips, he took another long, slow drag.

Steve swallowed thickly.

In the week since the rescue, Bucky’s bruises had all disappeared, and though he still looked slightly underfed, it was still a large improvement from the state Steve had found him in. The thought of that night sent a shiver down Steve’s spine.

They continued their aimless walk in silence and before long, the two soldiers found themselves at the banks of the River Thames. In the darkness, it was difficult to distinguish the water from the darkness, but Steve could hear it, the way the waves lapped up gently against the banks and the subtle purr of the current.

A railing ran along the riverbank to prevent people from falling in, and Steve approached it, Bucky ever present at his side. He placed his hands on the cool metal, looking out over the wide expanse of water. Bucky leaned over on his elbows, another puff of smoke streaming from his mouth like a fire-breathing dragon.

Bucky was the first to break the quiet, subdued atmosphere.

“Morita told me you’re going back.”

Steve didn’t respond. He knew Bucky would be mad at him – was still mad, in fact. He shrugged. “There’s a lot of work to be done.”

“He says yer rounding up a team of lunatics to follow you to the gates of hell.”

Steve looked down – he was still getting used to the fact that he was now _taller_ than Bucky – and saw the sergeant’s jaw muscles flex. “What’s a party without friends?” he replied casually. “Jim and a few others have already agreed to come.”

Bucky snorted. “Those guys don’t know you well enough to understand what they’re getting’ into. Either that, or they’re too stupid ta care. I know you better than anyone and you’re bitin’ off way more than you can chew, just like always.”

“So, that mean you’re not comin’?”

Blue eyes turned to meet Steve’s steady gaze. “Depends on whether you’re askin’.”

“Well, this is me asking. You up for joining my team?”

After taking one last drag from the tobacco, Bucky flicked the cigarette butt into the river and straightened up. Turning to face him, the man squared his shoulders. “A man’s gotta be stupid or crazy or a whole lotta both to agree to somethin’ like this, but that never stopped me before.”

A large smile split Steve’s face in two. He’d been trying to find a way to ask Bucky for days – ever since he got approved for this – but he couldn’t quite figure out a way how. Part of him wanted Bucky to refuse, but a part of him also really wanted his best friend out there with him, watching his back. They’d already spent so much time apart, and Steve would have been lying to himself if he said the prospect of taking on Hydra alone had been daunting.

“But I got one condition.”

The interjection didn’t dampen Steve’s mood. “Anything,” he replied.

Pale lips quirked up into a smirk. “Careful, Rogers, don’t go promising things you can’t deliver. It’s a bad habit of yours.” The playful expression evaporated. “I’m serious, Steve; I’ll join your team and go on this half-baked escapade, but I have one condition.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to promise me something. And I mean it this time – you make this promise, and I’ll come with, but if you can’t then I’m walking away right now. Same goes for you breaking it – I’ll never forgive you.”

“Okay...?”

“You promise me that the mission always comes first, no exceptions.”

Steve barked out a laugh. “Really Buck? That’s what you want me to promise you? That sounds like something Peggy would say at briefing. You look so serious, too!” he said as he laughed. “I bet Peggy would have even pulled specs, like ‘SSR Code of Conduct section seven’ or ‘Protocol 927’ or something.”

“Quit laughin’, I’m not joking! You can’t promise this and I’m out.” Bucky looked angry, and that made Steve sober up some. “This isn’t like back in New York, we ain’t on the streets of Brooklyn anymore! This is war, Steve, and it’s not pretty. I know; I’ve seen what these Hydra people get up to. You’re the captain, and that means you’re gonna have to make tough decisions, and I want your word, right now, that you don’t let anything compromise the mission. If that means you have to leave me behind, then you fucking leave me behind!”

Bucky was shouting now, and his body was wound up with tension and stress.

Steve blinked; he was taken off guard by the sudden burst of passion and turn in the conversation. “But Buck, you can’t expect me to-”

“Then I’m out.”

“No, wait, Bucky, I’m not gonna just leave you to _die_ -”

“Well tough shit, cause if comes down to it, between my life and the mission, you choose the mission. I’d do anything to protect you, Steve, you know that, and if it means I die to let you finish the mission and walk out alive – then that’s how it’s gotta be.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest – every inch of his body was screaming to refuse. The image of Bucky’s limp body strapped to a metallic throne prison flashed before his eyes and his heart clenched.

But then the scene in the corridor outside pushed it aside – he remembered fearing for Bucky’s life as the building exploded around them, remembered ordering the sergeant to get himself out of the Hydra base before it buried them both, how he was willing to perish under that heap of rubble if it meant that Bucky would get out.

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you have to promise me the same thing. If I get captured or trapped or killed, _you_ leave _me_ behind and finish the mission.”

Bucky gave one curt, resolute nod.

“Okay. I promise. So, you’re in?”

The sergeant shrugged. “I guess I’m in.”

“Alright then.”

“So... Protocol 927?” Bucky said, folding his arm over his chest with an amused grunt. “Where do you even come up with all this?”

Steve laughed. “I’ve been spending too much time in briefings with the Colonel,” he replied.

“You’re the one who said it, not me. Protocol 927,” he snorted. “It’s actually kinda growing on me.”

-8-

The stretcher jostled and bounced as the men ran across the uneven ground. Orders were shouted as the mixed party of soldiers and medics crossed the base camp. Evenly spaced lamps warded off the darkness of the night, and the sounds of boot squelching through thick mud filled the background.

Steve tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but and hand landed on his shoulder and shoved him back.

“Lie still!” Bucky growled.

From his position on his back, Steve was looking up at Bucky on his left. Bucky wasn’t facing him, and Steve could only see his jaw, chin, and nose from below, but he knew from that tone of voice that he was angry. “Seriously, Buck, I can walk, the infirmary’s only-”

“Shut your trap and lie still!” barked the sergeant.

“Cap, you were almost blown to pieces, just humour us.”

Steve looked to his right, where Falsworth was holding up one portion of the stretcher.

“Look, guys, really I’m fine,” Steve insisted, his voice rising. Sure, a huge gaping hole had been burned into his uniform. Okay, so maybe he’d taken a few gunshots. Fine, he may or may not have tried to kick away a grenade at the last second and gotten caught in the explosion, but really, all things considered, he was in one piece and he’d definitely had worse. Without the serum, sure, he probably would have been dead by now, but the point was, Steve _did_ have the serum and really everything would be fine in a few days.

But the Commandos were having none of it – no matter how much he tried; he wasn’t winning any arguments against six others. Still, that didn’t stop Steve from arguing anyways.

The stretcher was just reaching the medical bay when a new voice cut across their bickering.

“Steve?”

Steve blinked as everyone turned towards its source.

From where he was lying, surrounded by his Commandos and medical personnel, Steve couldn’t see who had spoken, but he could tell who it was just from the intonation and the lilt in the way his name had been pronounced.

“Howard?”

Sure enough, a boney shoulder wedged itself between Dernier and one of the medics and a moment later, Howard’s mustachioed face popped into view. The man’s dark chestnut hair was coiffed back in his signature style and his warm, chocolate eyes were wide and shining in the dull lamplight. A concerned expression was painted over a face that was composed of a small nose and firm cheekbones, the corners of his mouth pinched downwards in a small frown.

“Oh my god, what the hell did you do this time?” Howard asked as Steve was carted into the medical tent and the stretcher set down on one of the cots. A doctor appeared and began assessing the damage.

“You mean other than auditioning for the role of a target at a shooting range?” Bucky spat. “Stupid punk strolled right into a grenade.”

“What?!?” Howard exclaimed. “Wait why didn’t you use the shield to block the blast? That’s what it’s for, Rogers!”

Steve looked away sheepishly. “It... uh... might have gotten wedged in a wall at the time of the grenade incident.”

“Geez, kid, do you have some kind of death wish or somethin’?”

“Of course he does, had one since the day I met him,” Bucky muttered darkly.

“Somehow I’m not surprised. And what happened to the uniform?” Howard asked in horror as he picked at the singed material. “I thought I upgraded fabric to a higher grade flame retardant and added more tensile fibres to the thread count!”

“Sorry Stark, looks like I’m gonna need a new one. But that gives you the chance to add more features and do a redesign, right? Besides, what are you doing here anyways? This is a little far from New York.”

Howard waved a hand. “Field tests. Classified and all that junk.”

Steve noticed that Bucky had suddenly stiffened, and his eyes had gone wide. The captain followed his gaze to find it fixed upon Howard.

“Stark? You’re... you’re Howard Stark?”

Howard turned his attention to the stunned sergeant and gave him a once-over. “Yeah, what’s it to ya, kid?”

Then it dawned on Steve – Bucky hadn’t met Howard yet. Even though the inventor had been providing the Commandos with armour and weapons for the better part of the last year, he’d only been on contact with Steve.

“Oh, Howard, this is Sergeant James Barnes. Bucky, meet Howard Stark.”

Bucky turned his wide eyes on Steve, with a look that screamed _why didn’t you tell me you knew THE Howard Stark???_

Steve couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the look on the sergeant’s face, which only served to cause his burns and bullet holes flare up with pain.

“Howard, Bucky here has been a huge fan of yours for years. He once dragged me to Stark expo and spent the whole day gushing over all your fancy inventions.”

Bucky turned scarlet. “I did not _gush_ , I was appreciative.”

“Sure you were,” said Steve with a wide grin.

“A fan of my work, eh?” said Howard, relaxing from his defensive stance. “Well it’s good to meet you, sergeant,” he said, extending his hand.

Bucky looked slightly at a loss for words as they shook hands.

“If we’d had the time and money, I think Bucky would’ve gone to college for engineering,” Steve said.

Howard raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you’re a tinkerer like me?”

If it was possible, Bucky blushed even harder. “I- yeah, well, I guess?”

The inventor stroked his chin. “Well, any friend of Captain Rogers is a friend of mine. If you’d like, when this fuck-fest of a war is all over, gimme a call and we’ll see what you can do. I could set you up with an apprenticeship or something.”

Bucky looked more flustered than Steve had ever seen him. “I- wow, that’s- that’s amazing, thank you!”

“No problem, kid.”

Just then, the conversation was interrupted by the doctor. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an operation to perform, and I assume you all want it to be successful, yes? Well in that case, would you all kindly consider giving me and my medical staff the space to actually perform the operation?”

-8-

“Steve!”

The hallway was crowded and chatter filled the air, but even still, Steve could recognize Peggy’s voice above the cacophony. Turning towards the source of her voice, the captain searched the sea of faces for Peggy’s honey brown curls and trademark shade of lipstick. It didn’t take long to pick her out of the myriad of military personnel.

“Peggy!” he called back with a wave, pushing his way towards her. When he was smaller – before the serum – Steve wouldn’t have had any hope of making headway in a crowd like this.

He smiled when they reached each other. The SSR agent was dressed in her uniform, perfectly pressed and pinned. Peggy placed a gentle hand on his arm and reached up to give him a peck on the cheek, and Steve could feel the blush creeping up his neck and onto his face.

“You’re back early,” she said as she beckoned him to follow her.

“Yeah, we finished up our last mission ahead of schedule,” he said just loud enough for her to hear as he fell into step beside her.

“Have you filed your reports yet?” Peggy asked, and Steve couldn’t help but grin – it was always business first when it came to the SSR agent.

“I just handed it in. The rest of the Commandos are filling out their reports too.”

The Englishwoman gave a firm nod. “Excellent. How are they boys doing?”

Steve chuckled. “Same as ever.”

“And Sergeant Barnes? You know, Colonel Philips had half a mind to confine him to the med bay, what with his cracked ribs and all,” she said with a knowing smirk. “Although, I told him it wouldn’t have made a difference.”

Steve coughed and changed the subject. “You got any news on Schmidt?” he asked. They’d been hunting the man for over a year now, and he’d proven more elusive than initially predicted. “There weren’t any signs of him at the factory we took out.”

“Unfortunately not; he’s the head of Hydra, so it should come as no surprise that he’d be absent from something as mundane as a factory operation.” Peggy purposefully spoke under her breath – just loud enough for Steve’s enhanced hearing to catch but too quiet for regular human ears.

The captain swore quietly. “Well we’d better find a lead soon; we’re running out of options and Schmidt is supposed to be running out of places to hide.”

“Well we just got some intel on the next best thing,” Peggy said, handing Steve a folder from the stack that she was carrying.

Steve flipped open the cardstock and skimmed through the file. From the looks of it, the SSR had been attempting to track the lead scientist in Hydra’s research division, one Dr. Arnim Zola. Information was few and far between, but a collection of code names and bits and pieces of research topics indicated that this man was deeply involved in designing the plasma weapons that Hydra had been mass producing. A small photo of the man was clipped to the reverse side of the cover – rendered in blurry black and white was the visage of a long face. Large, curious eyes peered out from behind a pair of glasses.

“We got a tip from a reliable source that says Hydra will be shipping blueprints and materials for a new plasma weapon to one of its factories, and Zola will be on the cargo train to supervise the operation.”

Steve nodded. “Interception mission?”

Peggy flashed him a dazzling smile. “Have you ever been skiing before? The Alps are wonderful this time of year”

-8-

Steve landed on the roof of the train with a heavy clunk and immediately couched low. The rushing wind forced him to squint, but he could see that one car length ahead was the hatch that they were aiming for. Another thud behind him caught his attention, and Steve turned to see Bucky as he gained his footing on the sleek metal plates underneath their feet. His landing had been just as smooth as Steve’s, and a moment later, they huddled side by side on top of the train.

Bucky’s dark hair – barely regulation at this length – was buffeted wildly by the rush of the frigid mountain air. His crystalline blue eyes were focused and sharp, and he had his brow pulled together and his jaw set in the way that Steve knew from experience as Bucky’s let’s-get-this-over-with face. Steve still remembered Bucky putting on that same expression every time they got called down to the principal’s office at school when Steve had dragged him into another fight. The difference was that now, that face came with more unsavoury memories.

The sergeant gave Steve a curt nod, which Steve returned before turning back to the task at hand. Large wads of snow pelted Steve’s as he crawled forwards. The freezing flakes chilled his skin as they melted and slid away. The going was slightly awkward – the shield at his back would catch the wind like a kite if he moved the wrong way, and it took all of Steve’s strength to hold on to the roof when it happened. The steel plates beneath their boots were welded together, and finding hand and foot holds was difficult.

After what seemed like an hour, Steve and Bucky reached the small hatch. The lock was easy enough to break; Steve and Bucky exchanged a look of resolution before throwing it open. The hatch lid caught the wind as it opened, slamming it back against the roof with a deafening metallic clang.

So much for the element of surprise.

Steve was the first to jump through the opening. Tucking his feet in mid fall, Steve landed on the rough wooden floor of the train car with a roll that took him to the side wall. The captain was untucking himself from his crouch when Bucky landed beside him.

The train car was poorly lit in a bluish hue from incandescent lights above. Thankfully, there didn’t appear to be guards in this one. Piles of crates were stacked throughout the narrow space with exactly enough room between the boxes for people to walk single file. Heavy tarps were draped over many of the looming piles and the thick smell of oil and coal filled Steve’s nostrils.

The captain unslung the shield from his back as Bucky was doing the same with his rifle. Just as Steve was about to step out from behind cover, the door at the far end of the car slid open with the scraping sound of rustle metal. Shouts came through the open door, and footsteps indicated four or five men.

Steve gave Bucky a look. _Here we go again,_ he said with his eyebrows before Steve whipped around a stack of crates and flung his shield.

The circular disk of vibranium caught the first guard square in the chest, knocking him back into the soldier behind him. As the shield ricocheted off the leather armour two rifle shots sounded from behind him; the third and fourth soldier collapsed to the ground as the shield bounced off the wall and ceiling before Steve caught it again.

Just as easily as the first wave of guards had fallen, more soldiers clad in black filled their place.

The electric whine of a plasma cannon being charged caught Steve’s attention, and he turned to see a heavily armoured goon behind them.

“Bucky, duck!” Steve commanded.

The sergeant smoothly dropped to his knees without breaking form, felling three more soldiers as he gracefully descended to the floor. Steve wasted no time in leaping over Bucky’s crouched form and barely had the time to square his feet before the first salvo struck the vibranium. Steve gritted his teeth, bracing at the impact. The shield quivered in his grasp as it absorbed the plasma bolt, and Steve could feel the atmosphere shiver with electricity as it dissipated.

As soon as the energy subsided from the shield, Steve launched himself towards the plasma cannon. A second salvo was fired from the cannon, which he deflected with the shield into the side of the train. With a loud explosion, metal and wood splinters erupted into the air, tearing a gaping wound in the side of the train. Sub-zero wind ripped into the car, whistling angrily as the train continued down the tracks.

Regaining his balance, Steve continued his charge on the cannon. The captain reached the weapon just as the rising pitch of the whine reached its zenith for the third time, and he only narrowly knocked it to the side in time for the blast to strike a pile of crates on Bucky’s left.

Now at close range, the heavily armoured man in front of his unsheathed a long black baton that crackled and sparked with blue electric currents.

Steve inhaled once to settle his nerves a second before the baton sliced through the air. The captain dodged handily to the right and swung the shield with his left arm. The edge of the disc caught the man in the arm. The man grunted as he topped into a stack of crated beside him.

The soldier wielded the baton with more agility than Steve expected, and the captain found himself in a deadly dance with his opponent as he dodged and weaved between the electric baton’s sizzling path. He managed to get in two good punches before the strange weapon caught him in the shoulder.

Agony exploded from the point of contact as every single muscle in his body involuntarily clenched. Steve collapsed to the floor as his body recoiled from the blow, his vision blurring. Whatever that thing was, it stung like hell, and Steve wasn’t eager to touch it again. It had felt like lightning had coursed through his veins and all control of his body had been stripped from him.

Panting, Steve had just managed to lift himself onto his hands and knees when the baton struck his back.

Steve cried out in pain as his body contracted painfully once more. The shield fell from the captain’s grip and met the floor with a loud, resounding crash. For several seconds, Steve’s senses were flooded with searing torment.

As the world faded quickly back into focus, it took Steve a moment to realize that baton wielding goon had staggered back, clutching his shoulder with a bloody hand. Without pause, the captain summoned all the supernatural strength he possessed and thrust himself forwards. Steve’s shoulder smashed into the soldier’s chest, knocking them to the ground. One good punch to the head was enough to knock him unconscious.

Breathing heavily, Steve staggered to his feet. More guards were pouring into the train car from this direction. The captain spied the now unmanned cannon beside him, and quickly jumped behind it. With a powerful swing, Steve rotated the cannon 180 degrees to face the oncoming soldiers. Firing several shots in quick succession, he took out a handful of men and managed to block the entrance with debris before a grenade landed at his feet.

Diving to the side, the captain barely managed to clear the explosion, which was augmented by the destruction of the canon. The air crackled with energy as the plasma shells released their contents into the train car.

Steve was pulling himself to his feet when an agonized cry pierced his senses.

The captain’s heart leaped into his throat.

_Bucky!_

Steve’s head snapped up. Bucky was on the floor, lying like a rag doll on his side. The mountain air flooding through the gaping hole in the side of the train whipped through Bucky’s hair and uniform with ferocity. The sergeant’s eyelids were half closed, his eyes rolling in their sockets. Looming above him was a soldier holding a lightning baton, blue electric sparks dancing up and down the rod.

Bristling with anger, the captain bolted to his feet as the guard hauled Bucky’s limp body from the ground and forced his arms behind his back in a submissive hold.

“Ah, ah, ah,” said a snide voice. “Not another step, Captain.”

Steve skidded to a halt.

On the other side of the train carriage, across the aisle from the burly soldier, was a smallish man. A pair of large glasses sat upon a slim nose, a shock of dusty blonde hair atop an oblong face. Wearing a stained lab coat sprinkled with acid burns, the man had his arms folded behind his back. The small man gave a silent command to the goon. Steve’s heart almost fell through the floor as the burly soldier callously jerked Bucky’s limp body until it was perched precariously at the edge of the opening in the side of the train.

“You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your friend here, would you?” Dr. Arnim Zola asked.

Steve swallowed the shout that threatened to escape his lips. Hands clenched into fists at his sides and ground his teeth. Bucky was beginning to stir – he was blinking, and Steve saw a brief look of confusion on his face as he took in the wide, gaping view of the snowy gorge below. It was a moment before he registered that he was still on the train, being restrained by a rather impressive goon.

“Take one more step and dear Sergeant Barnes will be taking quite the tumble,” Dr. Zola cooed.

Bucky’s head whipped around to look at Steve, and the captain swore he saw a flash of terror strike the sergeant for an instant before his jaw and brow tightened into a stony mask. The electric rod in the soldier’s grasp sizzled threateningly.

Steve could hear his heart pounding against his ribcage as his mind raced through all of the possible ways of getting out of this situation. His eyes darted to and from, looking for anything that could help. There just had to be a way... He and Bucky had made it out of all kinds of ludicrous circumstances before – sometimes it wasn’t unscathed, but they’d managed the crape themselves out of everything. Surely there was something – anything he could do now.

There had to be _something_.

Finally, Steve’s eyes returned to Bucky, and they locked gazes. Bucky wore a steely expression on his face, and his eyes were hard and filled with determination.

And then Bucky mouthed three words to Steve.

 _Nine twenty-seven_.

And Steve felt his heart stop.

There had to be another way, there just- no!

But Bucky’s expression was resolute.

They’d known each other long enough that Steve could practically read Bucky’s mind.

_You promised me, Steve, don’t you dare break it, not this one, not this time._

Against all his instincts, Steve took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It took a moment for him to mentally steel himself against what was about to happen.

And then he charged Armin Zola.

The next two seconds seemed to pass in slow motion, as if the very fabric of time had been stretched – Zola emitted a frightened shriek as he threw his arms into the air and turned to flee. There were shouts of confusion as the scientist fled the compartment. Steve dove forwards, throwing himself towards Zola in an attempt to tackle him.

And Steve watched with abject horror as the burly soldier on the other side of the aisle smirked with satisfaction. In one swift motion, he brought the baton down on Bucky’s shoulder, ripping a cry from his lips as Bucky’s body twitched and contorted from the electric shock. And then the soldier placed one boot on the sergeant back, and shoved.

Bucky disappeared into the yawning breach in the train.

Time seemed to stand still.

Bucky was facing away from Steve when he fell, his eyes wide and filled with fear. He was not the man who had stood beside Steve on the parade ground, not the man who crouched on rooftops and sniped Hydra agents with terrifying precision, not the man with a hard gaze and a stony expression – he was the boy who helped Steve save a kitten from being stranded in a tree, the boy who stargazed with Steve in hot summer nights, the boy who had shared his meager lunch with Steve since they were in grade school; he was just a frightened boy.

And there was nothing Steve could do as Bucky screamed and fell from sight.

Time snapped painfully back into focus when he collided with Zola. Straddling the small Hydra official, Steve pinned him to the floor. And everything went blank.

-8-

The next thing he was aware of was three pairs of hands holding him back, and as many voices shouting at him to stop.

Steve blinked.

He was still on his knees, sitting atop Dr. Zola.

Only, Zola’s face was beaten and bruised beyond recognition, blood oozing from countless cuts and mass swelling. He looked on the brink of death, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest the only indication otherwise.

Steve’s brows drew together in confusion, until his eyes landed on his hands

They were covered in blood.

Zola’s blood.

Steve scrambled back in horror, staring at the bright, rusting crimson on his knuckles.

And then Morita’s face filled his vision, pulling his hands away from his face and shaking his shoulders. His lips were moving, but Steve couldn’t hear what he was saying – he couldn’t hear anything beyond the blank static that was playing deafeningly in his ears.

-8-

The sky was dim in morning twilight; the first stray beams of sunlight leaked in through the curtains.

Steve looked up in the soft rays of light; as he blinked, he could feel the layer of salt that had dried on his face.

Morning. Already.

He’d spent the whole night sitting at this table.

At his elbow were four empty bottles of liquor.

Strewn across the table surface were loose sheaves of paper.

All of Bucky’s letters.

Steve’s voice cracked as another sob escaped him. Burying his face in one hand, he swept his other arm across the table in a fit of anger.

The bottles and a half-full glass shattered to pieces on the tiled floor.

-8-

The North Atlantic Ocean was a sight to behold – it was vast in a way that Steve had never noticed when viewed through a small port window. But now, the sweeping scenery through the wide windshield of the Hydra bomber, it was spectacular, in a very serene way.

The late afternoon sun glinted off the shimmering, bright blue surface; the ocean sparkled like a vast swath of fine silk studded with sapphires. Fields of ice looked fearsomely majestic, and water stretched out in all directions for as far as the eye could see.

Steve was calm, his heartbeat slow.

He knew there was probably some other way to do this and walk away from it, but they really didn’t have the time to find a better solution. Schmidt’s corpse was already cooling on the floor behind him, but if he didn’t do something soon, the massive payload in this bomber’s underbelly was going to end a whole lot of lives.

Besides, Steve had made his peace.

The captain pushed the yoke forward, and the bomber’s nose tilted earthwards. Frigid arctic air rushed in through the broken panels of glass in the windshield and sliced at Steve’s face like knives, but Steve didn’t care.

From under his uniform, Steve withdrew two pairs of dog tags. Holding them gingerly in one hand, Steve lifted his chin. He was not going to cry – there were no more tears left for him to shed.

He was not afraid.

Steve welcomed the Atlantic Ocean with a solemn expression, and in return, the Atlantic Ocean welcomed Captain Steven Grant Rogers with open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UG this chapter was a nightmare to format! I'm not used to AO3's uploading software (it's so different from Fictionpress!) and I had a hell of a time learning how to work with this T_T


	2. The Promises We Keep

The freezing cold air felt like it was peeling the very skin from his face, but it didn’t matter because the only thing Bucky saw was the stricken expression of unadulterated horror on Steve’s face and the only thing he could hear was the sound of his own scream as it echoed throughout the gorge.  
  
He was falling, and he fell for what seemed like an eternity – long enough for him to think, Steve is going to kill me for this.  
  
But Steve kept his promise.  
  
Protocol 927, they’d called it.  
  
That was the only thing that mattered: Protocol 927.  
  
The wind rushing in Bucky’s ears was almost deafening, and his vision was filled with the obliterating whiteness of the snow and mountain mist.  
  
And then there was nothing.  
  
-8-  
  
Everything spun nauseatingly fast; Bucky felt like the world had been put in a blender and he was watching it swirl round and round and it fucking made his head hurt so bad. A million things rushed through his addled brain but holding on to a thought was like trying to catch a minnow in a running river. Bucky’s throbbing head could only register one thing: Protocol 927.  
  
Nothing else was important.  
  
All of Bucky’s senses were warped, and he couldn’t make out a single thing, even though he was pretty sure his eyes were open and he was somewhere and there were people but that couldn’t be right because the last thing he remembered was falling, falling, falling...  
  
And Steve.  
  
Where was Steve?!?  
  
Bucky gasped, big and loud like all the air in the world wasn’t enough to fill his lungs but he was going to try and gulp it all down anyways.  
  
There was a clatter of metal and shadowy figures moved around him.  
  
He heard voices – “...acle he surv...” and  “...ola will be pleased with the resc...”  
  
Everything swam and the darkness at the edge of everything slowly crept forwards until there was nothing but the dark.  
  
-8-  
  
The haze of unconsciousness shifted.  
  
There was pain, but there was also no pain.  
  
“...f you can hear me, Sergea...”  
  
“...cedure has already beg...”  
  
“...ch a shame we couldn’t save your arm, bu...”  
  
“...rry, I will take ver...”  
  
There was no pain, but there was also no feeling either.  
  
-8-  
  
It began with blankness.  
  
Nothingness.  
  
And then slowly: whispering voices, the gentle caress of air upon skin, the texture of metal and leather beneath heavy limbs, the smell faint smell of salt and porcelain, the brightness of light against the eyelids.  
  
He cracked open an eye.  
  
The room was well lit. Several people with sterile gloves moved about two laden tables. The walls were barren, the air buzzing with unease.  
  
He was sitting in a chair. It was metallic and covered in leather in some places – the material was lukewarm to the touch and forced him into an uncomfortable posture. Looking down, he saw that he was wearing nothing but a thin pair of black cotton pants, stained and ragged. His arms were bolted to the chair with large, thick bands of iron; his right arm felt the cold sting of the metal, but strangely his left arm did not – it was silver and gleamed in the light of the electric lamps. An attempt to move his legs revealed that they too were bolted in place.  
  
His brow furrowed as he stared at the ground.  
  
Where was he? What was this place? He couldn’t recall how he came to be here.  
  
A set of jet black boots attached to suit pants-clad legs appeared in his vision.  
  
Gray-blue irises travelled up a body dressed in a lab coat draped over a pristinely pressed ash suit. The man was short, but filled out in healthy proportions. His face was wide and rectangular with a large, pointed nose perched above a pair of wide lips. Light brown hair decorated the top of his head, standing permed and glossy.  
  
The man smiled. A pair of striking, dark eyes was looking back at him.  
  
Bending down on one knee, the man lowered himself until they were at face to face. “Petrushka,” he said – the voice had a medium timbre, and it was soft, spoken with gentleness. “Petrushka, can you hear me?”  
  
He frowned and cocked his head to the side. What did this man want?  
  
“Now tell me, Petrushka, tell me what you remember. Do you remember anything?”  
  
His frown deepened. What a strange question – of course he remembered.  
  
And why was this man calling him petrushka? That wasn’t his name. His name was... his name was...  
  
His eyes grew wide.  
  
What was his name? Why couldn’t he remember?  
  
He began to squirm, the chair shaking and rattling as he struggled.  
  
Why couldn’t he remember his own name???  
  
At the sound of a small chuckle, he looked up. The man had risen from his kneeling position, and now stood over him. There was a smile of pleasure painted on the man’s features.  
  
“Oh Petrushka,” purred the man, “you don’t remember anything at all, do you?”  
  
He was now fighting the restraints, throwing himself against the bolted clasps. A cry of frustration erupted from his throat and as his hands clawed against the armrest, his mind clawed against the inside of his brain, trying to remember... something! Anything!  
  
Squeezing his eyes shut, he thrashed against the iron.  
  
“Petrushka, I’m so sorry,” the man cooed, his voice soothing and sympathetic.  
  
Doing his best to shut out the voice, he screamed and fought against the chair, but despite this, the man continued talking.  
  
“Oh, my poor Petrushka, what have they done to you? They have stolen your memories from you, you poor soul, but I will not let them keep your memories forever. I can help you. Together, we can win them back.”  
  
Try as he might, he could not ignore the words, which settled about his shoulders like a sickening miasma.  
  
And then through the fog, through the blankness of his mind, came one thing. It rang through his body like a cleansing bell. A name.  
  
Steve.  
  
It was not his name, this much he knew, but with this name came a deluge of thoughts that all rushed passed, and he felt as if he had been thrown into a raging river with a cannonball tied to his ankle. They all coursed through him but he couldn’t understand any of it, and it filled him to the brim with anger, with grief, with rage.  
  
The air cracked with the shrill sound of shattering iron as he broke free of that chair, free from that infernal device.  
  
“Petrushka, that’s enough!” said the voice, but it was no longer important, because this name – Steve – filled his being like nothing before. He may not remember his name or where he was or how he came to be here, but he knew that Steve – Steve was important. And Steve needed him.  
  
The sounds of upheaval around him barely registered as he tore himself from the chair, twisting the metal in his righteous ire.  
  
“Petrushka!” the voice called over the din of panic. The man’s face was furrowed with disapproval. Without backing down, he squarely planted his boots upon the tile and bellowed a single word.  
  
He did not understand the word – it must have been in a foreign language – but his mind registered it nonetheless, and he twitched as he moved to lift his metallic former prison into the air.  
  
The man shrieked, screaming that word once more, but he didn’t flinch as he threw the mangled mass of steel and leather across the room.  
  
“He’s rejecting the programming!” cried a terrified voice.  
  
“SUBDUE HIM!” another voice roared.  
  
A heavy body landed on his back, and the piercing chill of a needle plunged deep into his shoulder. He fought against the attacker, handily throwing the person off his back, but is senses were quickly failing, and a moment later, he buckled to the floor.  
  
Steve... I’m sorry...  
  
His eyes half-lidded, a pair of black boots stepped into view.  
  
A heavy sigh. “Oh, my poor Petrushka...”  
  
-8-  
  
He dropped the artillery gun on the floor as he walked into the room; it landed with a resonant boom that echoed throughout the small, tiled space. Two lamps bathed the walls with weak light. There were only three things here: two tables, and a metallic throne.  
  
The Chair. A contraption of iron, steel, and leather, it made an imposing figure in the centre of the cramped area. A tall, long backboard was hinged to the seat, with a neck- and head-rest built into the top. Countless straps of leather and steel chains decorated the leg rest and arm rests. Designed to shift between reclining and upright, The Chair was heavily reinforced and weighed as much as an industrial refrigerator. Beside it, a control module was located, from which a complex web of wires innervated the regal seat.  
  
He did not distinctly remember The Chair, yet somehow he recognized it.  
  
He eyed it warily even as he approached it, and slowly took a seat. Immediately, he was swarmed by technicians, all eager to assess but afraid to hover in one place for too long.  
Sitting still, the fluttering technicians unclasped the heavy, black leather armour and begin the arduous process of stripping off the many layers of protection that they had placed upon his body not half a day ago. He gave them no attention – he could kill them without flinching, with just the swat of his hand, but he remained unmoving. He wasn’t supposed to.  
  
Nervous fingers fluttered over his body. Pads with electrodes connected to wires were pressed to his skin and several needles pierced his flesh – some injected, some drew blood. The technicians buzzed about him like flies about the maw of a panther after a fresh kill, its teeth smothered in the blood of its prey.  
  
As the fussing continued, a man waltzed silently into the room, the personification of regal grace itself. A spotless white lab coat was draped neatly over a starched black suit. His face was long and angular, his head crowed with a basket of silver hair. A pair of large lips hovered below the nose, large and pointed.  
  
The man smiled, his expression unfolding into pleased expression, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling.  
  
“Welcome home, Petrushka.”  
  
He did not reply.  
  
The man approached.  
  
He watched with weary eyes.  
  
The man reached forward and skimmed his fingers against his bare skin, just beneath his eye along the rim of the black moulded mask that covered his nose and the bottom half of his face. With delicate precision, the man reached behind his head and undid the mask’s clasp. The black muzzle fell into his lap.  
  
He inhaled in deeply, his nose now unobscured by the heavy padding. The musty scent of gunpowder and soot filled his nostrils; it was a familiar odor.  
  
“Mission report, please,” the man cooed.  
  
He opened his mouth and his lips began to move; strings of words left his lips, forming sentences. The mission was successful – objectives completed, no complications – and he reported as much.  
  
The man’s smile widened. “Very good.” The man turned to a nearby file and noted several things before turning back to him. “We’ll just have some light conditioning before we put you to bed, then.”  
  
His body reflexively stiffened and tensed almost painfully in response.  
  
The man seemed to sense his reaction. “Oh, poor, Petrushka, I’m sorry, but you must be conditioned, it simply cannot be avoided – I wish I could stop them, I really do, but I am powerless to prevent it. Do you remember what happened the last time I tried?”  
  
He did not remember, but he shook his head in agreement anyways.  
  
The man stepped closer and patted his shoulder. There was a sad expression in his eyes. “Since you have done so well today, I will condition you myself. I will not let you suffer any more than need be. I will be as gentle as possible, my sweet Petrushka.”  
  
He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly.  
  
The man turned to one of the tables and took his time deliberating over the instruments neatly laid out there. After selecting one, the man approached. The man’s knuckles were knobby, its dark blue veins varicose upon spotted, alabaster skin.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he cleared his mind.  
  
For the next thirty minutes, his blood-curdling scream echoed in the small chamber, painting the walls with his tear-soaked cries and flooding the floor with his vomit.  
  
When at last the man stepped back and replaced the instrument, his body was trembling violently.  
  
“Oh, my poor Petrushka, I’m so sorry, but it had to be done. There, there,” the man hummed quietly as the man stroked his long, matted hair. “All will be well, my dear. I will take the pain away now.” The man turned to the swarm of technicians. “Prepare my darling Petrushka for cryo-storage, please.”  
  
The foul smell of his own bile saturated his nostrils, his mouth and throat coated with the stinging same acid. Sweat and blood stained his rough skin. He was unable to control the quiver in his limbs as the swarm of technicians once again surrounded him, strapping him into the metallic chair. A piece of thick plastic was offered to him, and robotically, he placed it between his teeth.  
  
The headpiece was lowered, and the rusting throne reclined.  
  
He clenched his jaw tightly.  
  
As an electric crackling filled his ears, he produced a single thought: Protocol 927. It was the single most important thing, the most important protocol, and he used all of his strength to focus his mind upon it. This was always the last thing that settled in his mind before the wipe. How he knew this, he did not know, only that it was true.  
  
Protocol 927.  
  
It resonated softly in his mind, cold and yet somehow comforting.  
  
The machine was turned on with an ominous, electrical whirring.  
  
He screamed, his voice rubbed raw and hoarse as a blinding white light washed over him, cleansing him in its embrace.  
  
-8-  
  
The target was in view. Wounded, and bleeding, but in view. This had been unexpected. He had not been informed that the target would be so robust. And so resourceful. The mission was running longer than initial parameters allowed – he needed to complete the objective quickly.  
  
The mission should have been completed hours ago, but somehow the target had escaped in the broad daylight of the midafternoon. It was night now, the darkness shrouding him like a familiar cloak. Lying on his stomach on the hard concrete roof, he had his sniper rifle cradled in his arms.  
  
Through the scope, he could see the target. He was reclining in a plush couch, and if not for the blood smeared upon his clothes and the way he held his broken arm, he might have appeared to be lounging leisurely. He took aim.  
  
He placed three bullets square into the target’s chest.  
  
Procedure compelled him to confirm the kill, but the movement of shadows in the small apartment caught his attention. Secrecy trumped conformation – it was part of operating parameters. Avoiding discovery was paramount, and outweighed almost everything else. If location was not secure, it would not be possible to confirm kill.  
  
Through the scope on his rifle, a man appeared at the window. He had broad, muscular shoulders over which a tight white shirt was stretched. His face was long and angular, his jaw carved and his brow pronounced. His brow was creased with concern, his pale red lips pursed into a determined line. Short, golden blonde hair crowned his head, and even from this distance, he could make out a pair of strikingly clear green eyes.  
  
The programming stalled for only a moment  
  
He blinked.  
  
There was no time to dwell – it was likely a small fault in the system. It would be amended upon return. There were more urgent concerns.  
  
Location compromised.  
  
Swiftly, he gathered his materials and began his retreat. Strong, sturdy legs propelled him across building and rooftops. His enhanced vision allowed him to see with only the light of the waning moon and the glow from the streetlights below to guide his way. Weaving through the canopy of this jungle of brick and steel, he made his escape.  
  
But the laboured sounds of heavy breathing and the unmistakable thunder of footsteps haunted his flight.  
  
He frowned.  
  
That was simply not possible.  
  
Nothing human had the capability of keeping pace with him.  
  
But his hearing was not lying to him. A quick glance visually confirmed that there was a hostile in pursuit.  
  
It was the man from the window. He ran like an arrow piercing the wind, with a back as straight as a board. His strides were powerful and relentless, driving him forwards with a ferocious speed that he had never encountered before.  
  
A harsh glint of light caught his attention, and that’s when he spied what the hostile was carrying on his left arm: a disc-shaped shield. It was large, circular, and painted, although several scuffs had been made in the finish.  
  
He was just coming to the edge of his building roof when his pursuer hurled the shields towards him.  
  
The object sliced through the air faster than he thought possible, and there was no time for him to escape. Without another choice, he skidded to a stop and extended his left hand, catching the metallic disc with his steel fingers. It was an interesting object – he had never encountered such a weapon, he knew, because his programming did not recognize it. He had been trained to use and/or to counter a vast number of items, and his programming was drawing a blank with this object.  
  
The hostile slowed to a stop, a look of shock etched onto his features.  
  
He hesitated, his breathing laboured from the long run and the energy required to suck air through the dense material of his face mask.  He did not know why he hesitated – the programming was engineered in order to avoid such things, but hesitate he did, if only for a fraction of a moment.  
  
But then he was in motion again. With one powerful swing and the flick of his mechanical wrist, he flung the shield back at its owner and vaulted over the side of the office tower, disappearing into the streets below.  
  
-8-  
  
Protocol 927.  
  
It was the first thing that floated across the mind.  
  
Protocol 927.  
  
It was always the first thing that registered when waking – before muscle calibration rebooted, before sensory systems came online, before any other piece of programming, there was Protocol 927.  
  
For a moment, there was absolute silence. The world stood still, like a photograph, and the only thing in it was Protocol 927. It permeated his being and filled him with purpose, and it was calm, and it was quiet.  
  
Things began to reboot. Bodily sensation was the next thing to return. His limbs were stiff, as always, and a gnawing chill still lingered on his skin, the frost dancing up and down his veins like small insects upon a beast’s hide. Upon his bare chest he could feel the cool mist of the air settling upon him, condensing on his skin. Carefully, he took a measured breath. Cool air crept into his lungs, permeating the crevices with fresh oxygen, bringing with it a stale metallic scent.  
  
He cracked open an eye. The icy walls of the cryo-chamber framed his view of the room’s high ceiling, which was hard to discern in the muted lighting of soft lamps. He blinked slowly; his eyes were dry and his eyelids scraped uncomfortably over his sclera like sandpaper. A head appeared in his field of view – a technician, he surmised – his collar adorned with a crooked black bow tie, his shoulders clad with a stained lab coat.  
  
Nervously, the technician reached forward and grasped his right arm.  
  
He was helped into a sitting position – the body was always slow and uncoordinated until operating systems fully emerged. Using his left arm, he lifted himself out of the frozen chamber. The Chair was waiting. It took several steps to reach the contraption, into which he folded himself with the aid of the ever present cloud of technicians.  
  
Looking around, the room seemed quite large. No, not room – upon closer inspection, it seemed to be some sort of vault, judging from the walls lined with safety deposit boxes and the circular entrance, the dull brass glinting drearily in the lamplight.  
  
As the technicians performed routine assessments, the echoing sound of footsteps drifted in through the door from the corridor beyond.  
  
With his eyes fixed on the only portal, a man appeared. The man was dressed in an expensive looking three-piece matte-black suit. His shoes were polished and spotless, his wrist bore a golden watch, and his fingers had several rings.  
  
When he entered the room, a hush fell over the people present. A wooden chair was produced, and the man dropped himself into the seat without preamble. Now at eye level, he could see the deep wrinkles on his face, make out the glossy, sand-blonde shade of his hair, see the rivets of black that studded otherwise bright green irises.  
  
“Look at me,” the man demanded.  
  
He complied.  
  
“There’s a new mission.”  
  
“Database update required before new mission parameters,” he said.  
  
A technician interceded. “Protocol mandates a database update in all cases except for redeployments within thirty days of the preceding storage date. Storage procedures were completed less than forty-eight hours ago; no database update is necessary in this case.” To prove this point, the technician produced a cellular phone with the current date.  
  
Although the memory wipe that precedes each cryo-storage erases all cached memory, mission dates were archived in the programming database, which was the only part of memory storage that was shielded from the wiping procedure and kept intact. The current date shown was indeed less than two days after the conclusion of the previous mission.  
  
“Prepared to receive new mission parameters,” he said in reply.  
  
The technician stepped back with an audible exhale of relief.  
  
The man sitting across from him looked angry at the interruption, as if the programming’s interjection was somehow an act of insubordination. “This is an elimination mission. Two targets. Threat Level Five; they’ve already destroyed Zola’s base of operations,” he said bitterly. “I want verified kills as soon as possible. Confirm orders.”  
  
He tilted his head in a slight nod. “Elimination mission. Two targets, threat level five. Mission confirmed.”  
  
The man stood, buttoning his suit jacket as he rose to his feet. “Good.” As the man walked away, the technicians fluttered in to fill the empty space.  
  
-8-  
  
In the passenger seat of a black SUV, he waited as Hydra operatives organized themselves. Through tinted windows, he could see a tactical strike team finishing up their preparations. He was shortly joined by several other soldiers before departing. The driver – a high ranking operative, he noticed from the variant of the Hydra emblem emblazoned on his shoulder – spoke as they pulled onto the streets.  
  
They were in Washington DC, heading towards the location of the Hydra property where Zola had been housed – the two targets had razed the building to the ground mere hours before rousing him from cryo, and the strike team was hoping to pick up their trail from there.  
  
The night sky was dark in the inner city. Streetlights cast the empty world in a yellow-and-orange glow. And it was quiet; he heard very few sounds beyond the hum of the engine. With keen, alert eye, he watched as the Capital passed by outside. He saw glimpses of tall buildings, classical architecture, and patriotic monuments, but none of them held any significance to him – they were merely structures of stone and steel that required tactical analysis. Towers soon gave way to the sprawl of suburban lawns, and in time, that too petered out to reveal grassy fields and sparse forests.  
  
By the time they reached the secluded site, it had reached the wee hours of the morning. The sky was beginning to brighten from darkness into an azure shade, heralding the sun’s upcoming debut.  
  
-8-  
  
The structure that had become Zola’s final resting place was nothing but a graveyard of cracked concrete and twisted metal. The only remains of the long standing Hydra base was a pile of rubble the size of a small hill. Nothing but two or three footprints in the debris indicated that the targets had survived the blast of their own making.  
  
There were no leads.  
  
-8-  
  
It took most of the day to track down the targets.  
  
In the late afternoon, Hydra Agent Jasper Sitwell had failed to appear for an important briefing. When the tech department triangulated the tracking chip in his cell phone, it revealed that Sitwell was still in DC, but on the opposite side of the city that he was scheduled to be, and he was moving fast.  
  
Under normal circumstances, this would have already been flagged as suspicious activity, but with the heightened security level and enemies lurking, it was almost certain to be the targets.  
  
Their black SUV weaved through metro traffic as quickly as possible. The light was beginning to turn, and soon it would be evening. It took nearly another half hour to catch up with them, but finally the radar indicated that Sitwell was only two vehicles ahead. The car was an old sedan, and there was nothing conspicuous about it.  
  
With his rifle in hand, he used the scope to get a better look at the passenger cabin. There appeared to be four occupants. The first target, Captain Steven Grant Rogers, was easily identified with his the broad shoulders and golden blonde hair. The second target, Agent Natalia Romanoff was also easily identified with her fiery red hair. The tracking beacon indicated that one of the remaining two passengers was Jasper Sitwell, but the fourth occupant was an unknown. In the mission briefing, each of the targets’ files contained pictures for all known current associates, and this stranger did not resemble anyone from either of the files.  
  
He stored this information carefully – unknown variables were by nature unpredictable, and if the correct precautions were not taken, it could mean the difference between a mission success and a mission failure. He would need to be very alert and follow all the appropriate protocols.  
  
The SUV’s driver tailed the sedan for another two blocks before it approached an interaction with the right-turn indicator on.  
  
This was the moment to act.  
  
Winding open the sun roof, he braced his legs against the back of the seat and pushed his torso through the opening. The whistling wind whipped through his long, tangled hair, but the tactical goggles he wore kept both the hair and the air out of his eyes.  
  
Taking aim with the rifle, he placed the car in his sights as it turned the corner and squeezed the trigger. The barrel of the rifle spewed a short burst of bullets into the air; the shots slammed into the side of the vehicle with force. Immediately, the back tire burst with a loud bang with pieces of black rubber flying in all directions and causing the sedan to skid; at the same time, bullet holes appeared in the back passenger’s door and the window shattered. Through his scope, he saw Jasper Sitwell slump in his seat, blood leeching through his clothes.  
  
The street instantly erupted into mayhem. Screams of panic and the squealing of rubber punctuated the air. All traffic came to a stop as the rest of the Hydra strike team poured out of their vehicles and moved to surround the targets.  
  
Mechanically, he opened the passenger door with his flesh hand and went to the trunk, where the weapons were stored. Sifting through the boxes, he found what he was looking for in the third container – the grenade launcher.  
  
As the rest of the strike team crept forwards, he hefted the large weapon onto his metallic shoulder. Removing his goggles, he peered through the sight and brought the sedan into view. The car had swiveled during its stop so that the front was facing him, and he could see the remaining occupants through the cracked windshield glass.  
  
The unknown accomplice was sitting in the driver’s seat, hurriedly unbuckling his seat belt. He had dark, caramel skin and large, muscular arms were attached to wide shoulders. His hair was shaved close to his scalp and a pair of aviator sunglasses covered his eyes. Captain Steven Grant Rogers was sitting next to him in the front passenger’s seat, dressed in civilian clothing with a mild look of panic painted on his features. In the back seat, Agent Natalia Romanoff’s head and torso were in view.  
  
All targets in range.  
  
He fired the grenade launcher.  
  
The explosive sailed smoothly through the air and followed its trajectory, right to the engine of the vehicle – it exploded with a puff of sunflower-yellow flames as the car’s steel carcass flew into the air. However, the only human carcass inside was Sitwell’s. Three bodies rolled away from the vehicle moments before the grenade made contact, and each immediately sprang into action.  
  
From behind his shield, Captain Steven Grant Rogers deflected the oncoming fire from the hydra soldiers. Agent Natalia Romanoff had opened up a black umbrella with a web pattern that appeared to be bullet proof as well, behind which she and the unknown accomplice were taking cover.  
  
Scowling, he threw aside the grenade launcher and reached back into the SUV to retrieve a set of machine guns. With one braced in each hand, he opened fire.  
  
Agent Romanoff quickly adjusted her shielding to account for oncoming bullets. Expertly covering their feet with the contraption, she and the accomplice moved away from the vehicle to take cover behind an overturned semi-truck.  
  
Captain Steven Grant Rogers, however, remained stationary and instead tilted his shield at precisely the right angle so that it did not reflect the bullets, but instead caused them to ricochet off the metal and back towards the hydra agents, felling two or three of them in his first sweep.  
  
Furrowing his brow, he released the triggers and ceased firing. He had not anticipated that move, and the programming was buzzing at this discovery – unpredictability was the programming’s biggest weakness, which was why 80% of its protocols were designed to eliminate as much of it as possible. Whenever something unpredictable happened, it always threw things off kilter, as he had to recalculated everything to take into account the new conditions.  
  
He advanced down the street with the machine guns in his hands as the remaining Hydra agents attempted to contain the situation, but it was difficult when bodies with crimson emblems were dropping to the floor like paper dolls being blown over by a gentle breeze.  
  
Movement to the side caught his attention, and his sharp eyesight caught a glimpse of two figures. Romanoff and the other man were trying to regroup with Captain Rogers. Using one of the machine guns, he emptied a clip as he swept his arm in an arc, peppering the street with bullets while he armed a grenade with the other hand, tossing it onto the road beside Captain Rogers.  
  
It had the effect he intended – the gunfire had pinned Romanoff and the second man in place, while the grenade and forced Captain Rogers to dive behind an abandoned mini-van for cover, increasing the distance between him and his allies.  
  
Now that he had successfully separated Captain Rogers from his friends, he gestured for the remaining Hydra agents to pursue Romanoff and the other man while he eliminated the shield-wielding menace.  
  
With a nod of confirmation, the remnants of the Hydra strike team pivoted and began pursuit – well placed shots into the fuel tanks of three cars caused more explosions that forced the two targets further away.  
  
He turned to face his opponent.  
  
Captain Rogers was armed only with that shield, but the programming in his mind was buzzing with constant reminders of its effectiveness – information from the mission briefing files scrolled through his mind, identifying its strengths and weaknesses. His first priority was to separate Captain Rogers from it.  
  
Firearms were as much of a liability at this point after having seen the target’s proficiency at deflection, so he discarded the machine guns as he approached the crouched man. He would have to finish this in hand-to-hand combat.  
  
As the distance between them dwindled, the atmosphere seemed to become charged. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising in anticipation of the oncoming brawl. Flexing his fingers, he withdrew one of the thirteen knives he kept strapped beneath his armour.  
  
Captain Rogers stood slowly from his crouch. It was evident from the way he moved that the target’s body was a finely coiled spring at this point – every muscle appeared to be wound with expert control and precision, waiting to be sprung at just the right moment.  
  
Adrenaline burned through his veins as he felt his senses heighten. Top form would be required to complete the mission.  
  
The target remained on the balls of his feet in a ready position.  
  
He threw the first punch, and it was the catalyst that set everything into motion.  
  
The target surged into action, and the fight became a blur; he had never encountered any human who could move as fast as he could, and it took everything in him to keep pace with the target. Captain Rogers swiftly dodged his fist, weaving in between the punches he threw with his left and the swipes of the knife in his right.  
  
It became a dance as Captain Rogers moved around and through his assaults, his fist and the edge of his blade finding either empty air or the shield. When he finally triumphed with the first blow – a strike to the jaw with his flesh hand – the target immediately countered with a strike to his abdomen. The dance continued down the street as he tried to corner the target, but Captain Rogers was having none of that, and manoeuvred himself such that he couldn’t be penned in.  
  
They traded blows – every hit that he landed was followed by receiving one in return. It was an even match, at the programming was having a fit over it – this shouldn’t have been possible, but here he was, locked in a stalemate with this target.  
  
For ten minutes he threw himself at the target with every move his programming had, and for ten minutes Captain Rogers held him off until –  
  
One perfectly timed kick caught the target in the hip, but the stance left him open to Captain Roger’s counter – the target’s elbow struck the side of his face and dislodged his mask. In retaliation, he threw his body weight to use the target’s momentum against him, and successfully tossed Captain Rogers across the street.  
  
The target twisted as he sailed through the air and managed to land on the balls of his feet as smoothly as a lynx. When the target’s head snapped up, he expected to be charged head on.  
  
But instead Captain Rogers fell out of his fighting stance and stared at him with an open mouth, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, his clear emerald eyes widened beyond belief.  
  
“B-Bucky?” gasped the target.  
  
He didn’t know how or why, but his mind was thrown into a frenzy at that one word.  
  
“Who the hell is Bucky?”  
  
As soon as the words left his mouth, he frowned. Why had he spoken? There were strict protocols in place that dictated the exact situations in which he was authorized to speak, and this was certainly not one of them.  
  
For a moment he was... confused. The buzzing commands in his head were a jumble and he was adrift for a second.  
  
But it was not long before he recovered from his moment of weakness, and he responded by bounding forwards with a swipe of his knife.  
  
The battle resumed, but there was a change in the target’s demeanor. His movements had shifted subtly from one of guarded defense into something... different. He was taking risks. The target allowed him to land more hits in exchange for chances to knock him off balance. The tempo to their dance had changed.  
  
When he threw a shallow slice, the knife was wretched from his hand, but the way that Captain Rogers had gripped his arm, he had positioned himself in such a way that left him prone for a fraction of a second.  
  
But that fraction was all he needed.  
  
Dropping swiftly into a crouch, he twisted pulled the arm that was trapped in hard grip and swept his leg across the ground. The target’s balance was upset by the sudden tug, and when he stepped back, Captain Rogers tripped over his leg and toppled onto his rump.  
  
He swooped down like an eagle onto its victim, knocking the target onto his back and attach with a flurry of blows, but even in such a prone position, Captain Rogers still managed to block almost two thirds of his hits.  
  
He was about to land a solid blow on the target when something large and heavy struck his shoulder and sent him skidding across the pavement. When he looked up, the unknown accomplice from earlier was hovering in the air, a pair of sleek, black mechanical wings protruding from his back.  
  
He pursed his lips into a frown unseen behind his mask.  
  
The strike team must have failed to eliminate the other two.  
  
Sure enough, at that moment, there was movement on his left – so fast that he almost didn’t catch it, but a glimpse of ruby red hair belied the arrival of Agent Romanoff. He was adjusting his stance to account for the positions of the new threats when his whole body seized painfully – the result of a massive amount of electricity flooding through him, just as he heard Captain Rogers cry, “Wait!”  
  
The shock didn’t last long, but it was large enough to knock him onto the ground.  
  
It had been Agent Natalia Romanoff. Her file had detailed her weapons of choice, which included metallic projectiles that contained enough electricity to knock a heavyweight unconscious.  
  
Just as he was blinking back the pain and sensation returned to his muscles, there was an explosion behind him.  
  
A bus flipped through the air, and he watched as it arched through the air toward him.  
  
With wide eyes, he tried to move, but his body merely twitched in response.  
  
The bus landed with a thundering crunch of iron and steel, but Captain Rogers’ echoing “NO!” rose above it all.  
  
When the dust settled, he found himself still breathing.  
  
A quick assessment of the situation revealed that the bus had landed on his mechanical arm, covering his hand, forearm, and half its bicep. Other than obvious structural damage to the limb, he didn’t seem otherwise harmed.  
  
He was, however, pinned beneath the heap of warped metal with no way of escaping. He was strong, yes, but without the mechanical arm, he wasn’t powerful enough to move an entire city bus.  
  
From this position, he could only watch as the targets turned to flee.  
  
The winged accomplice and Agent Romanoff wasted no time in initiating their escape, but Captain Rogers faltered. He stood, body turned and ready to run, but remained in place as he looked back at him. The shield bearing man looked conflicted – almost unwilling leave. Almost as if... he wanted to help.  
  
He frowned. Why would the target possibly want to help?  
  
Something stirred in him, something deep, something primal.  
  
“Steve! Come on!” called the winged man, grasping the captain by the arm and pulling. “Let’s get out of here!”  
  
Captain Rogers hesitated again, this time for 2.6 seconds – he looked torn, his eyebrows were drawn together in concern – but in the end he conceded to his comrades and joined their flight from the scene of destruction.  
  
-8-  
  
He was sitting in The Chair. Under any other circumstance, he would be uneasy in this place, sitting in The Chair with the technicians and their incessant drone. The brass-lined walls glittered in the background and filled the air with a coppery tang.  
  
He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t get the image of that target out of his mind – his short, golden blonde hair, glossy in the light of the afternoon sun, his crooked, pointy nose, his sculpted, angular face, the long eyelashes that framed his gleaming bright eyes.  
  
What was it about this target?  
  
His brain was throbbing painfully like never before; thousands of commands whispered in and out of focus, but he couldn’t let go of that face... Something in the back of his mind turned and tossed, like a child in a fitful sleep – it was... old, it was foreign... it was... something else. This thing – it tickled the back of his skill until it became a demanding itch.  
  
What was it?! Nothing like this had never happened before...  
  
“I knew him,” he whispered, and suddenly he doubled over in agony. That one thought had triggered an explosion in his head, and it took every ounce of his will to remain conscious. But no matter how hard it hurt, it didn’t – couldn’t – rip that revelation from him.  
  
I knew him!  
  
But... how? From where?  
  
Although he was bewildered, he refused to succumb to the chaos that swirled violently through his mind.  
  
The shrieking of metal scraping against concrete pierced the air.  
  
He looked up with watering eyes.  
  
A man dressed in a pressed, three-piece suit was taking a seat on a stool in front of him. His face was wrinkled, old, and dour. The man regarded him with a fierce look. “Mission report,” the man spat.  
  
He looked back with a confused expression.  
  
Growling loudly, the man raised his hand and beat him across the face. “I said mission report! Now!”  
  
He drew his dark eyebrows together. “But... I knew him...”  
  
The man stomped to his feet. “You useless piece of-”  
  
“Mr. Pierce! Sir! It wouldn’t be wise to-”  
  
The man whipped around to face the technician who had spoken. With a swift motion, he reached into his suit jacket and produced a pistol from his breast pocket.  
  
A gunshot echoed throughout the chamber.  
  
A corpse crumpled to the concrete.  
  
“Prep it for the next mission!”  
  
“Sir, he’s unstable.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter! Start the prep!”  
  
“Sir, Dr. Zola’s operating instructions indicate that he functions at the optimal level for only twenty-four hours. After that, the prospect of effective results rapidly declines. Operating parameters allow for a six hour extension, but only in emergencies, and even then, there’s a huge risk of-”  
  
“I don’t fucking care about Zola’s instructions! Do you see him here? No! I’m the one in charge! Prep. It. Now.”  
  
“But sir! After the twenty-four hour mark, Dr. Ivchenko’s psychological barriers begin to collapse and the programming loses its ability to subvert frontal cortex functions. Furthermore, memory bleeding begins to take effect as the serum repairs the neural damage. All of this is clearly documented in the test-”  
  
“Fine! Then wipe it clean and start over! I don’t care what you have to do, I want it ready for deployment in four hours!”  
  
-8-  
  
The helicarrier’s operating system was housed in a room directly underneath the bridge. A vast space, it held rows upon rows of computer hardware that hosted all of the flying fortress’s computer systems – navigation, weapons targeting, autopilot, sensor systems, communications, all of the data and computation was performed in this room. Because of its location, the room had the same panoramic view of the land below s the bridge deck above did.  
  
He took up a position in front a pair of reinforced steel doors that served as the only conventional entrance (and exit) to the room. From here, he had a clear view of the long, narrow corridor that led to him.  
  
Take-off had been initiated; he could feel himself being weighed to the floor as the massive carrier slowly lifted into the air. The climb was smooth and steady, the upgraded thrusters proving an even lift as they ascended into the afternoon sky.  
  
Armed to the teeth, he was the most dangerous thing on the planet, and he had one mission objective: eliminate Captain Steven Grant Rogers.  
  
He waited in stillness.  
  
This time, his target would come to him.  
  
Sure enough, after 11.7 minutes of level flight, the airship tilted ever so slightly before righting itself. The change was so minute that none but the most keen sense of balance would have detected it. A moment later, he heard an explosion hit the hull and the resulting vibrations sang along the structural support beams.  
  
He flexed his fingers.  
  
Two more minutes passed before the distinct echoing of footsteps tickled his enhanced eardrums.  
  
Raising his assault rifle, he aligned the sight with his eye and aimed the barrel at head-level. Using the diffraction of the sound waves, he could tell that they were coming closer, and he could calculate the exact moment when the person making those steps would round the corner.  
  
He timed the squeeze of the trigger with the instant that the figure would come into view. A handful of bullets leaped from the barrel, sailing through the stale corridor air; a curse was shouted as the lead embedded themselves into the wall.  
  
He scowled. He didn’t know how, but his target had fast enough reflexes to completely reverse his velocity to avoid being shot in the head. It shouldn’t have been humanly possible – there should not have been any living being fast enough to escape him, but Captain Steven Grant Rogers had somehow been able to.  
  
“Bucky!” a deep voice called down the hallway, and he flinched. “Please! I don’t want to do this!”  
  
His temples throbbed uncomfortably at the sound of that voice. He answered with another burst of shots from his rifle.  
  
“Buck, I just want to talk, I know we can work thi-”  
  
He fired another round of bullets.  
  
There was a sigh.  
  
“Bucky, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, I should have-”  
  
He emptied his clip into the wall at the end of the corridor; it now resembled a monochrome polka dot painting more than a wall.  
  
Throwing the empty rifle to the floor, he reached behind him to grab the machine gun strapped to his back. Just as his hand closed around the replacement weapon, a canister was tossed around the corner and into the corridor; the small cylinder rolled a few feet as it spewed a thick cloud of gas into the air – a smoke bomb.  
  
Within seconds, the entire hallway was filled with smog so thick it would have been impossible to see his fingers at the end of an extended arm. Through the sound of hissing gas, he heard heavy footfalls that indicated a man on the move. Hefting the machine gun in his arms, he sprayed the entire hallway with gunfire, sweeping the barrel from side to side and up and down.  
  
Most of the bullets made a heavy sound as they impacted the wall, but several of them clanged loudly against metal – that must have been the shield mentioned in the briefing files. It had outlined the weapon’s specifics, and he had been informed of its potency.  
  
He continued to pepper the clouded hallway with bullets until the magazine ran empty. Discarding the automatic, he pulled a pair of pistols from his hips and continued firing into the smoke. More pings of bullets striking metal rang out, but the telltale sound of lead piercing flesh was heard. He was half way through his pistol ammunition when a fist materialized from the fog in front of his face. With wide eyes, he dodged to the left as the leather glove skimmed his cheek.  
  
Instantly, he calculated the position of the body from the angle of the punch and moved his pistols to aim, but half a second before he could squeeze the triggers, blunt metal smashed into his hands. With a cry of pain, his flesh hand released the pistol it had been holding and his metal one  contracted so strongly that it crushed the one it was holding. He attempted a counter by kicking out his foot and he hit the target in the legs; the captain was now close enough that he could see his silhouette through the fumes, and he watched as it toppled to the floor.  
  
Racing to close the distance, he swung his left leg with all his might. His combat boots collided against flesh and bone with massive force, and the costumed man cried out in pain. But despite having just been punted in the chest, the target immediately captured his foot with both hands, locking it in an iron clad grip, and then twisted.  
  
A shout of surprise and agony escaped his lips as he both heard and felt his ankle pop, his body thrown off balance and twisting along with the torque. He landed heavily on his shoulder, taking the brunt of the fall on his chest and hitting his head on the hard floor. Pain laced up and down his leg, and by the time he had pushed himself into a sitting position, the target had already sprung to his feet and was bolting towards the server room.  
  
Captain Steven Grant Rogers reached the impressive steel doors in no time at all. Without any hesitation, he turned his attention to the keypad on the side.

Through the agonizing pain in his leg, he pushed himself against the wall as the target entered a few quick strokes on the number pad. The system beeped in confirmation, and he gritted his teeth as the doors slid open with a soft whoosh.  
  
The moment the doors opened, the target sprang into the room, but only managed five steps before falling forward to the ground with a yelp, the hilt a dagger protruding from the back of his thigh.

With deft fingers, the assasin removed a second knife from beneath his armour as he limped through the doorway. Without pause, he whipped this second knife at the target, but Captain Rogers had swiftly flipped himself onto his back and thrown his shield.  
  
The metallic disc sliced through the air, deflecting the knife with a clang and continued forward to slam into his chest, knocking him back over the threshold and into the hallway again. Stars burst across his vision for a moment as he reoriented himself. Pushing himself back up, he saw that the infernal circular weapon had reflected off his armour and back towards the target, who was now using it to help him stand. Blood was now seeping through the blue fabric of the target's pants, dripping along the hilt of the knife still buried in his thigh.  
  
His target was now hobbling his way down the main aisle between servers. Mission objectives flashied before his mind, and ignoring the screeching pain in his ankle, he stood back up and launched himself at the man. His body crashed into the target, and the two men tumbled to the floor once more. In a matter of moments, he had a third knife in his hand, and raised it above his head before plunging it back down.  
  
With reflexes as fast as lightning, Captain Rogers deflected the knife with a strike to his forearm. He was, however, in a better position, and quickly recovered to take another swipe at his target. He slashed repeated at the man, and while some of his slashes were blocked, not all of them were, and the tempered steel tasted blood as he cut gashes along the star spangled man’s torso and arms. His last swipe, however, was parried – the blade clattering to the floor and sliding out of reach – and then the target shifted his weight, turning his momentum against him to put him in a headlock. “I’m sorry, Buck,” the target said directly into his ear – the hot breathe tickling his neck – before a sharp edge was driven into his flesh arm.  
  
The sickening sound of snapping bone echoed between the towers of computer equipment; a hollow roar of pain was ripped from his lips.  
  
A quick punch was delivered to his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs. Hunching over, he cradled his right arm to his chest and hugged his abdomen with his metallic one as he tried to regain control of his breathing.  
  
When he looked up, Captain Rogers was limping towards the central control module, a small computer chip grasped between his fingers. Ignoring the alarms of overwhelming pain in his body, he focused on reaching for one of his remaining knives with his left hand. It took precisely three seconds to unbuckle the fourth knife and another second to throw it. The dagger zipped through the air like a deadly swallow and buried itself into Captain Rogers' shoulder. The target grunted with the impact and fell to one knee, but continued stumbling forward.  
  
It took another 2.5 seconds to retrieve the fifth knife; this one lacerated the target’s side on its way past before shattering a pane of windowglass. Cold air flooded into the room as glittering shards fell to the sparkling river below. He was reaching for the sixth knife when Captain Rogers reached the console. Kneeling on one knee, the bleeding captain typed quickly at the keyboard; the smooth sound of metal sliding against metal and the quiet whirring of a small motor accompanied the sight of a panel gliding open to reveal a set of slots.  
  
He hurled the sixth knife just as Captain Rogers was lifting his hand to insert the computer chip into the waiting receptacle; the blade impaled the target’s hand, the hilt sticking out of the back with the bloody edge protruding from the palm. Captain Rogers howled as he dropped the chip.  
  
Quickly, he scrambled to recover the seventh knife as the target picked up the chip with his other hand. The dagger departed his fingers just as the slot accepted the memory card with a cheerful beep; the weapon cut through the air as Captain Rogers turned to face him, and the blade knicked the top of his ear before continuing on to hit another pane of glass behind him. With a deafening crunch, it too shattered to pieces. The opening now wider, more frigid air flooded into the space, whipping past his bare face and stinging his eyes.  
  
He reached for the eighth knife, and with the weapon in hand, he threw it.  
  
Through watering eyes, he watched as the knife embedded itself in the front of the target’s already injured shoulder. Captain Rogers had sunken to his knees, his arms limp at his sides. His red, white, and blue uniform was torn and stained with growing patches of darkening crimson. Golden blonde hair was matted with sweat and coated with particles of smoke and dusk. Chest heaving, Captain Rogers took loud, laboured breaths as he swayed precariously. His face was pale, bruised, and streaked with drying blood, his chartreuse eyes welling with tears.  
  
He groped for the ninth knife, only to find that there was none. With a scowl, he forced his screaming body to stand and hobbled forwards, dragging his broken ankle behind him like a chain and ball. When he was but a mere two steps away, Captain Rogers looked up at him from his kneeling position through heavy eyelids framed with long lashes. Standing above his target, something shifted inside him as he looked down - something deep within.  
  
“Bucky...” whispered Captain Rogers, his voice cracking as he spoke.  
  
Turmoil bloomed within, stirring up debris he didn’t know he harboured; his stomach overturned and something in his chest constricted. With a deep frown, he pushed it all down and drew his metallic arm back.  
  
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHR!” he bellowed as he launched his metal fist forwards.  
  
Bone crunched under his knuckles.  
  
Captain Rogers slumped to the floor.  
  
He was panting heavily, the strain on his lungs almost too much to bear. He dropped to his knees, straddling Captain Rogers’ waist and hunched down, pulling his arm back and delivering another punch. The wet squelch of compacting flesh reached his ears.  
  
The mission was almost finished, but something inside him made him hesitate.  
  
He was... uneasy. It should have been simple to continue punching until he delivered the finishing blow – he had already done it so many times since this fight began. But somehow... it wasn’t right.  
  
Confusion descended upon him. What was happening? Why couldn’t he go through with this?  
  
He threw his fist at Captain Rogers’ face once more; it drew nothing but a small grunt from the man.  
  
“FIGHT BACK!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.  
  
He was frantic, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew something was wrong. Something had gone horribly wrong and he couldn’t figure out what it was.  
  
With glistening silver fingers, he grabbed a handful of fabric and pulled Captain Rogers close. “WHY AREN’T YOU FIGHTING BACK???” he shrieked, their faces mere inches apart.  
  
Captain Rogers wheezed. “I can’t fight you, Bucky,” he croaked, “you’re my best friend.”  
  
“FIGHT BACK!!!” he bellowed, even more distraught now.  
  
Captain Rogers shook his head. “I made you a promise, once.” A small chuckle. “Actually, I promised you a lot of things. But this – this one was important. I promised that... I promised you I’d put the mission first. I’d give my life for you, Buck, remember?” The captain  inhaled, his breath shaking. “I... I love you,” he said as he bridged the small gap between them; cool, drying lips brushed against his. “You... you made me promise. Protocol 927.”  
  
PROTO- Protocol 927... **Protocol** – _Protocol 927_ – COL NINE – **nine hundred** – protocol 927 – **twenty** \- TWENTY-SEVEN - **seven**... Protocol...  
  
Protocol 927.  
  
The command echoed in his mind, emptying it of everything.  
  
He could feel the delicate balance of thoughts in his mind fracture, and then crumble to dust. It felt like a great barrier had smashed to pieces, and a waterfall crashed over him. His senses were overwhelmed – a broad smile, full of mirth; the scent of a fresh pine forest, the air filled with fragrant moisture of recent rain; sparkling green eyes, the edges crinkling with happiness; a small boy, bruised and battered; a battle cry so fierce it filled him with righteous zeal; the clap of a hand, firm and comforting at his shoulder; the cool patter of rain on his face, refreshing and invigorating; a starry night sky in the sweltering heat; the luscious, salty taste of pan-fried sausages; the press of a body, sweat slicked skin sending sparks dancing against his own; a deep laugh, full and boisterous; the glissando of a horn, sweet and full as the room twirled playfully about him; the creak of old, rusting bed springs; the heady taste of sweat on his tongue; the shiver in his body as a deep, tenor voice spoke to him, ‘Bucky...’  
  
He recoiled from the force with which he was hit, scrambling backwards with wide eyes. He clutched his head as it pulsated painfully, the onslaught of senses never once receding. His mouth opened; he screamed.  
  
He screamed and screamed, until his throat was raw.  
  
“Bucky...?”  
  
He looked up to find Captain Rogers pushed up on one elbow, his fingers reaching forward...  
  
The whole room shook violently, the sounds of explosions erupting around them as the entire aircraft wailed with strain.  
  
An ear-splitting groan of deforming metal resonated powerfully through the air, and suddenly, the floor fell out from in front of him, opening up to reveal the wide, winding Potomac River far below.  
  
Captain Rogers fell, his body but an ant amid enormous chunks of debris from the disintegrating ship.  
  
“STEVE!”  
  
And then he jumped, his metal arm outstretched.  
  
-8-  
  
The water seemed to part for him as his body pierced the surface. His eyes stung when he opened them, but he didn’t care – he searched frantically until he spotted a body clad in red, white, and blue, slowly descending into the depths.  
  
Strong strokes propelled him downwards.  
  
Reaching out, silvery fingers grasped waterlogged fabric.  
  
-8-  
  
Heaving, he crawled to shore, hauling Captain Rogers with him.  
  
With the river water lapping at his shins, he knelt down, bending over the man’s chest to check for signs of life.  
  
Captain Rogers coughed and sputtered before his ribcage rose ever so slightly, accompanied by the wheezing sound of a laboured inhale.  
  
He was filled with relief.  
  
Exhaustion coursed through him; he fell to his hands.  
  
A sense of stillness enveloped him as he lowered his face to Captain Rogers’ neck. With an exhale, he pressed his nose and lips to the cool skin.  
  
He did not know who he was, or what was happening, but there was one thing he did know.  
  
He was finally home.  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UNF so I originally imagined this fic as a 10k thing with, like, four scenes. I thought it was going to be easy to write and a fast sort of short and sweet kind of thing. And then... it just exploded into this monstrously large 30k fic. Scenes pretty much... sprouted out of thin air and materialized before my eyes and it just kept going on and on... haha. It was a lot of fun to write, but it ended up being a very different beast than initially intended XD It also called upon all of my previous writing experience to create, as well, which was a fun thing. I'm really happy with the way it came together, and I hope you liked it too! Thank you so much for reading! =D

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, I want to dedicate this work to my three tumblr senpais (in no particular order):
> 
> [ Sonickitty ](http://sonickitty.tumblr.com/) : you are such a wonderful human being! Your blog is fantastic and you are such an inspiration to queer people everywhere. Also, your tiny!Steve cosplay MAKES LIFE INFINITELY BETTER <3 Thank you for being a ray of sunshine that makes all my days brighter.
> 
> [ Notallbees ](http://notallbees.tumblr.com/): my dear, you were the blog and the author that introduced me to the Cap fandom all those months ago; without you, I wouldn't be obsessed with Stucky, and without that, where would that leave me? This fandom has become such a huge part of my identity over the last year, and I BLAME YOU FOR ALL OF THIS YOU HAVE RUINED MY LIFE ARE YOU HAPPY. Your fics are to die for and you are such a beautiful person. Much love!!!
> 
> And finally, [ Stevebottoms ](http://stevebottoms.tumblr.com/): your blog IS PERFECTION. Literally, you are so funny and awesome and your blog just makes everything better. Aimee, you are such a sweetie and I'm so happy to know you; thank you for your amazing gifs and ideas and just everything <3 <3 <3
> 
> You three are amazing and fantastic and I wish I was better friends with all of you. Thank you for your inspiration and contributions to the fandom!
> 
> I'd also like to thank my beta, [ Lapari ](https://www.fictionpress.com/u/834928/Lapari-Caprise), for her wonderful help. I couldn't have asked for a better friend or beta. Finally, I'd like to thank [ captainrainbowlegs ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pornographicrainbowlegs) for encouragement and cheering me on during the writing process.


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